“Baron von Rumpf,” repeated the Englishman thoughtfully.
“Yes; he is not a man to submit to accusations without making a disagreeable defense.”
“His Highness has been dead these four years.”
“Dead four years? So much for man and his futile dreams. Dead four years,” absently.
“He was thrown from his horse and killed. But the duchess lives, and she is worthy of her sire. Eh, Herr, there is a woman for you! She should sit on this throne; it is hers by right. These Osians are aliens and were forced on us.”
“It seems to me, young man, that you are talking treason.”
“That is my business, Herr.” Johann laughed. “I am a socialist, and occasionally harangue for the reds. And sometimes, when I am in need of money, I find myself in the employ of the police.”
The muscles of the Englishman's jaws hardened, then they relaxed. The expression on the face of his guide was free from anything but bonhomie.
“One must live,” Johann added deprecatingly.
“Yes, one must live,” replied the Englishman.
“O! but I could sell some fine secrets to the Osians had they money to pay. Ach! but what is the use? The king has no money; he is on the verge of bankruptcy, and this pretty bit of scenery is the cause of it.”
“So you are a socialist?” said the Englishman, passing over Johann's declamatory confidences.
“Go to!” laughed the Englishman, “you aren't even a second cousin to me. But stay, what place is this we are passing?” indicating with his cane a red-brick mansion which was fronted by broad English lawns and protected from intrusion by a high iron fence.
The Englishman stopped and stared, unconscious of the close scrutiny of the guide. His eyes traveled up the wide flags leading to the veranda, and he drew a picture of a square-shouldered old man tramping backward and forward, the wind tangling his thin white hair, his hands behind his back, his chin in his collar and at his heels a white bulldog. Rapidly another picture came. It was an English scene. And the echo of a voice fell on his ears. “My way and the freedom of the house and the key to the purse; your way and a closed door while I live. You can go, but you can not come back. You have decided? Yes? Then good morning.” Thirteen years, thirteen years! He had sacrificed the freedom of the house and the key to the purse, the kind eyes and the warm pressure of that old hand. And for what? Starvation in the deserts, plenty of scars and little of thanks, ingratitude and forgetfulness.