Helen spoke warmly, and the young man listened with a brightening face.
“It is a kind prophecy; I accept it, and take courage. God knows I need it,” he added, low to himself.
“Are you bound for Italy?” said the major, in a most un-English fit of curiosity.
“For Geneva first, Italy later, unless Montreaux is mild enough for me to winter in. I go to satisfy my friends, but doubt if it avails much.”
“Where is Montreaux?” asked Amy.
“Near Clarens, where Rousseau wrote his Heloise, and Vevay, where so many English go to enjoy Chillon. The climate is divine for unfortunates like myself, and life more cheap there than in Italy.”
Here the train stopped again, and Hoffman came to ask if the ladies desired anything.
At the sound of his voice the young Pole started, looked up, and exclaimed, with the vivacity of a foreigner, in German,—
“By my life, it is Karl! Behold me, old friend, and satisfy me that it is thyself by a handshake.”
“Casimer! What wind blows thee hither, my boy, in such sad plight?” replied Hoffman, grasping the slender hand outstretched to him.