"You have betrayed yourself," I replied, trembling in turn, for I knew my actress in a moment. Oh, how could I fail to recognise that charming voice!
"I swear to you, Mein Herr, that you mistake me for some one else. I am the poor little wife of a citizen, Juliane Eichhörn—who sells groceries in the Bürger-platz. My husband has been maltreated by the boors, and is lying in deadly peril at a farmhouse, some ten miles distant. A hundred yards from the gate I am to meet a messenger, who will tell of his health. Oh, Mein Herr! excuse me—excuse the order; for I swear that I have lost it, and am dying with anxiety to hear how my husband—my dear husband—my Reichardt, is."
All this was said with such an air of candour and sincerity, and accompanied by so many sobs and tears, that I was greatly moved and perplexed. Duty on one hand urged me to send her back to the city or guard-house, from whence, if her story was false, she might be sent to the Rasp-haus; curiosity, love, and jealousy, all prompted me to fathom the story, and send her on her mission.
"I will follow her for a hundred yards or so—'tis only a falcon shot from the gate," said I; "but, lest there should be treachery, lend me your pistols, Diarmed, and if you hear me fire send out a few files to my assistance. You may pass, lady," said I in Spanish, "but pray excuse my accompanying you."
I led her through the klinket, stuck Diarmed's pistols—a handsome pair of Highland pops, mounted with silver and bushed with gold—in my belt, and, with a mixed feeling of curiosity and apprehension, followed my mysterious little dancer; with curiosity and eagerness to make her acquaintance, and apprehension lest I might be led into some wicked ambush, or be found absent from my guard when the governor went his rounds, which he did every night at a certain hour. And what think you decided me in perpetrating this rashness? only a glimpse of a pretty foot and ancle, as my dancer was about to step through the klinket!
Avoiding the road which led to Crempen, she struck into a solitary pathway that led between low hedgerows, along the north bank of the Elbe.
"Señora," said I, in Spanish, "you walk very fast."
"Señor—I walk as I please," she replied in the same language.
"Oho! then you acknowledge that you are not of Sleswig, but a Spaniard?"
"I acknowledge nothing," she replied, with some asperity.