How little
the old woman knew for whom she listened! All her talk had been
of Bauer--why Bauer did not come and what could have befallen
him. It was grand to hold the king's secret for him, and she
would hold it with her life; for he had been kind and gracious to
her, and he was her man of all the men in Strelsau. Bauer was a
stumpy fellow; the Count of Hentzau was handsome, handsome as the
devil; but the king was her man. And the king had trusted her;
she would die before hurt should come to him.
There were wheels in the street--quick-rolling wheels. They
seemed to stop a few doors away, then to roll on again past the
house. The girl's head was raised; the old woman, engrossed in
her stewing, took no heed. The girl's straining ear caught a
rapid step outside. Then it came--the knock, the sharp knock
followed by five light ones. The old woman heard now: dropping
her spoon into the pot, she lifted the mess off the fire and
turned round, saying: "There's the rogue at last! Open the door
for him, Rosa."
Before she spoke Rosa had darted down the passage. The door
opened and shut again. The old woman waddled to the threshold of
the kitchen. The passage and the shop were dark behind the closed
shutters, but the figure by the girl's side was taller than
Bauer's.
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