The country in its vicinity was lonely, and thinly populated. Save a wind-mill or two, and a gibbet on an eminence, with a man hanging thereon between the spectator and the sky, there was little to be seen but the dense forest, which then spread for miles along the banks of the river Waal, and away towards Bois-le-duc and Ravenstein.
This auberge, a rickety old house, the roof and walls of which some masses of ivy and woodbine alone seemed to hold together, was kept by Carl Langfanger, an old Brabancione, or disbanded soldier; and it was, in fact, one of the many secret rendezvous of Count Ludwig's military outlaws.
On the day after the night just described, three horsemen arrived at the auberge about noon, and within ten minutes of each other. They placed their horses in a shed behind the edifice, where a Brabancione, named Gustaf Vlierbeke, a very "ragged robin" indeed, acted as groom. They then met in an upper room, on the bare and dirty table of which wine, unasked for and unordered, was placed; and, we may mention, that their swords and daggers were not required by the slipshod tapster, though such was the custom in those days in all well-ordered taverns throughout Christendom.
These three personages were the exiled duke of Albany, the outlawed count of Endhoven, and that "Scottish worthy," Master James Achanna.
Their greetings were more brief than courteous, and after imbibing each a long horn of wine, they drew their chairs close to the table, as if to confer confidentially.
"More wine now, that we may not be interrupted hereafter," said Albany, as a preliminary.
"Have we not had enough?" asked Achanna, warily.
"Bah! I am not a hermit, and have no need of endeavouring to resemble old Anthony of Padua."
"Der teufel! our fair ones would not esteem you the more for seeking to do so," said Ludwig.
The duke smiled complacently, caressed his well-pointed moustache, and played with the tassels of his velvet cloak.