The sound came rich and full, but the exertion had been too great.
Jacques fainted, and his pale face lay on the stiff, outstretched arm of the dead soldier.
CHAPTER XII.
THE RISING SUN.
That morning the worthy Schwann, whose ancestors had kept the inn known as the Rising Sun for one hundred and fifty years, said that in all his experience he had never been so busy. Three travelers, three guests in February! It was most amazing. And the worthy innkeeper knew that this was not all. Six more strangers might arrive at any moment; but when he was asked who these strangers were, he winked mysteriously, but looked highly pleased. At the hour when this chapter opens, Master Schwann had just witnessed a veritable slaughter in his poultry yard; pots and saucepans were smoking on the fire, and vigorous preparations were made in the kitchen.
The door was suddenly thrown open, and loud laughter made the windows rattle. The innkeeper started, but before he could speak, he was lifted off his feet by the long arms of a vigorous looking young man, with a most enormous mouth. His costume was something wonderful; a startling combination of colors; a red coat, a yellow vest trimmed with huge black buttons, green breeches and long black hose.
"Iron Jaws!" cried the innkeeper, struggling in the grasp of the Colossus.