"Ah, it's the count!" said the old lady to her daughter in
satisfied tones. "What will he say, though, about that rogue
Bauer?"
Rupert of Hentzau put his head out from under the wagon-tilt,
looked up and down the street, gave the carter a couple of
crowns, leapt down, and ran lightly across the pavement into the
little shop. The wagon moved on.
"A lucky thing I met him," said Rupert cheerily. "The wagon hid
me very well; and handsome as my face is, I can't let Strelsau
enjoy too much of it just now. Well, mother, what cheer? And you,
my pretty, how goes it with you?" He carelessly brushed the
girl's cheek with the glove that he had drawn off. "Faith,
though, I beg your pardon." he added a moment later, "the glove's
not clean enough for that," and he looked at his buff glove,
which was stained with patches of dull rusty brown.
"It's all as when you left, Count Rupert," said Mother Holf,
"except that that rascal Bauer went out last night--"
"That's right enough. But hasn't he returned?"
"No, not yet."
"Hum. No signs of--anybody else?" His look defined the vague
question.
The old woman shook her head. The girl turned away to hide a
smile. "Anybody else" meant the king, so she suspected.
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