"Don't swear, Jürgens," Leo answered, feeling compassion for the old man on account of his disturbed slumbers.
"Lord! it's never the gnädiger master?" and he came and kissed his coat-sleeve, and would have taken hold of the horse's bridle to lead it down to the ferry-side when Leo stopped him.
He had only come, he explained, to ascertain the condition of the ice. The music of a three-toned sleigh-bells faint and distant, fell on his ear. Leo's heart bounded. She was coming; coming alone. He wrenched off his fur coverings and, jumping out, tied the horse's reins to the palings that surrounded the ferry-house.
Jürgens chattered on with toothless garrulity, as is the way of old servitors. The thickness of the ice on the river was nothing to speak of to-day, but to-morrow it would be another inch or so, and by Christmas it would bear cannons passing over it. This was the best day of all the year for him, he had sometimes taken as much as seven marks in tips. So generous were the friends of Herr von Stolt.
Now she must be driving through the village, the sound was deadened by the walls of the houses. Suddenly it broke forth clearly again, and a shadow was cast on the churchyard wall. The sleigh curved down towards the stream.
Hers was the muffled figure leaning back wearily in a corner. He approached the side of the sleigh as the driver brought the horses to a standstill.
She had been asleep, and did not stir till the jerk of the sleigh halting roused her.
"Good morning, Felicitas."
She gave a low cry and stretched out her hands to him, half in fear, half in joy, like a child who is not sure whether it is going to be scolded or caressed.
"Don't be alarmed," he said, giving a significant glance at the coachman. "I got out here to see if the ferry was all right. The river is full of ice-floes, and I am responsible for the Stoltenhof guests."