"I am from the north; a vintner, and there is plenty of work here in the valleys late in September."
"The grape," mused Carmichael. "You will never learn how to press it as they do in France. It is wine there; it is vinegar this side of the Rhine."
"France," said the vintner moodily. "Do you think there will be any France in the future?"
Carmichael laughed. "France is an incurable cosmic malady; it will always be. It may be beaten, devastated, throttled, but it will not die."
"You are fond of France?"
"Very."
"Do you think it wise to say so here?"
"I am the American consul; nobody minds my opinions."
"The American consul," repeated the vintner.
Gretchen could now be seen, wending her return in and out among the clustering tables. She set the tankards down, and Carmichael put out a silver crown.
"And do not bother about the change."
"Are all Americans rich?" she asked soberly. "Do you never keep the change yourselves?"
"Not when we are in our Sunday clothes."
"Then it is vanity." Gretchen shook her head wisely.
"Mine is worth only four coppers to-night," he said.
The vintner laughed pleasantly. Gretchen looked into his eyes, and an echo found haven in her own.
Carmichael thirstily drank his first tankard, thinking: "So this vintner is in love with our goose-girl? Confound my memory! It never failed me like this before. I would give twenty crowns to know where I have seen him. It's only the time and place that bothers me, not the face. A fine beer," he said aloud, holding up the second tankard.
The vintner raised his; there was an unconscious grace in the movement. A covert glance at his hand satisfied Carmichael in regard to one thing. He might be a vintner, but the hand was as soft and well-kept as a woman's, for all that it was stained by wind and sunshine. A handsome beggar, whoever and whatever he was. But a second thought disturbed him. Could a man with hands like these mean well toward Gretchen? He was a thorough man of the world; he knew innocence at first glance, and Gretchen was both innocent and unworldly. To the right man she might be easy prey. Never to a man like Colonel von Wallenstein, whose power and high office were alike sinister to any girl of the peasantry; but a man in the guise of her own class, of her own world and people, here was a snare Gretchen might not be able to foresee. He would watch this fellow, and at the first sign of an evil--Carmichael's muscular brown hands opened and shut ominously. The vintner did not observe this peculiar expression of the hands; and Carmichael's face was bland.