CHAPTER XLIV.
WEDDING BELLS.
The summer sun beat pitilessly upon the burnished cobble stones, driving from the crooked street all except the geese, and even these only languidly stretched their necks, hissing inhospitably at the heels of the dusty wayfarer, the sole object of interest to the landlord of the Red-Ox, who stood in the gateway of his hostelry and blinked in the glare of the sun. "Too old for a student," he muttered, "and no spectacles. Perhaps an artist." As the pedestrian came nearer a puzzled gleam, half of recognition, spread over his features. The dusty traveler stopped. "And so you are here yet!" and he slapped the broad shoulder of the host.
"Here yet, and hope to be for many a year to come," answered the fat host; "and you are here, not for the first time, I dare swear; but who you are, or when you last were here——
"That you can't recall. Why should you?"
"Ein Amerikaner! A studiosus juris, of the Pestilentia. Ein alter Bursch of ten years back! Remember? Surely, all but the name."
"And what's in a name?" shaking the offered hand of the landlord. "Mine is a mouthful for you—Claghorn."
"Herr Doktor Clokhorn. That's it. Not so great a mouthful after all." He led the way into the well-remembered garden. "Many a schoppen have you had here," he said; "and many a time sung 'Alter Burschen Herrlichkeit' at this very table, and many trout——"
"Devoured," interrupted Mark. "That pastime will bear repetition. As for singing, one loses the desire."
"Not so," observed the fat host. "I am sixty, but I lead the Liederkranz to-day. Wine, woman and song—you know what Luther said——"