CHAPTER XVII
THE CITY OF THE GOLDEN MISTS
A burly man, with a great black beard and a sunburnt face, drove up to the place as she spoke and exchanged words with Brandon. He had obtained a little pony-cart, by some occult means of which old travellers are the master; and he sat in it, smoking contentedly, as one who found nothing remarkable either in his presence at Wörth or in the circumstances which brought him there. When he was introduced to her as “Richard Watts,” he took his china pipe from his mouth, and lifted the brim of a vast sombrero hat stuck carelessly upon the very back of his curly black hair. He would be a man of sixty years, Beatrix thought—a man of many cities, yet the servant of none.
“Is this the lady?” he asked laconically.
“This is Madame Lefort,” said Brandon; “her servant is with her, but she can go behind.”
The stranger nodded his head and put his pipe into his mouth again.
“Two, then,” he exclaimed, and asked immediately, “Anything more?”
Brandon laughed.
“Mr. Watts is not accustomed to this kind of luggage, Beatrix,” he said; “but he’ll see you into Strasburg, and he’s a safer escort than a squadron of hussars.”
She turned to him a little anxiously.
“But you ride to Hagenau?”