The tall girl now perceived the king observing her, and curtseyed and laughed, for she had no idea of his rank. His horse furniture was shabby, and his own appearance was far from being stately or imposing. He stooped about the shoulders, and had a snuffy drop at the end of his nose. Over his uniform and decorations he wore a greasy old military surtout-coat of blue cloth, lined with white merino, its buttons, sleeves, and all of the plainest kind; an old battered cocked-hat, with what had once been a white feather binding the edge of it, and its rim being perforated by musket-shot; a pair of common dragoon pistols in holsters without flaps, and a pair of rusty spurs on long jack-boots that had never been blackened since they left the maker's hands, though they were greased by Strutzki every morning.
"What is your name, my handsome fraulein?" he inquired, while lifting his hat.
"Gretchen Viborg," replied the tall beauty.
"Are you married?" he asked with increasing suavity.
"No, mein herr."
"But anxious to be, doubtless," said Frederick, perpetrating a wink.
Then the girl, supposing that this funny old man was about to make some proposal to her, burst into a fit of laughter, in which the king good-humouredly joined, and then asked,
"How old are you?"
"Nearly twenty, mein herr."
"Good. Are you the keeper of the Wilde Katze?"