In fact, just about the time when the Prince’s horses were being unharnessed from his carriage on the heights of Mount Brenner, the hired carriage stopped before a little inn under the town wall of Innspruck hard by the bridge.  And half an hour later, when the Prince was sitting down to his supper before a blazing fire and thanking his stars that on so gusty and wild a night he had a stout roof above his head, a man and a woman came out from the little tavern under the town wall and disappeared into the darkness.  They had the streets to themselves, for that night the city was a whirlpool of the winds.  Each separate chasm in the encircling hills was a mouth to discharge a separate blast.  The winds swept down into the hollow and charged in a riotous combat about the squares and lanes; at each corner was an ambuscade, and everywhere they clashed with artilleries of hail and sleet.

The man and woman staggered hand in hand and floundered in the deep snow.  They were soaked to the skin, frozen by the cold, and whipped by the stinging hail.  Though they bent their heads and bodies, though they clung hand in hand, though they struggled with all their strength, there were times when they could not advance a foot and must needs wait for a lull in the shelter of a porch.  At such times the man would perhaps quote a line of Virgil about the cave of the winds, and the woman curse like a grenadier.  They, however, were not the only people who were distressed by the storm.

Outside the villa in which the Princess was imprisoned stood the two sentinels, one beneath the window, the other before the door.  There were icicles upon their beards; they were so shrouded in white they had the look of snow men built by schoolboys.  Their coats of frieze could not keep out the searching sleet, nor their caps protect their ears from the intolerable cold.  Their hands were so numbed they could not feel the muskets they held.

The sentinel before the door suffered the most, for whereas his companion beneath the window had nothing but the house wall before his eyes, he, on his part, could see on the other side of the alley of trees the red blinds of “The White Chamois,” that inn which the Chevalier de St. George had mentioned to Charles Wogan.  The red blinds shone very cheery and comfortable upon that stormy night.  The sentinel envied the men gathered in the warmth and light behind them, and cursed his own miserable lot as heartily as the woman in the porch did hers.  The red blinds made it unendurable.  He left his post and joined his companion.

“Rudolf,” he said, bawling into his ear, “come with me!  Our birds will not fly away to-night.”

The two sentries came to the front of the house and stared at the red-litten blinds.

“What a night!” cried Rudolf.  “Not a citizen would thrust his nose out of doors.”

“Not even the little Chateaudoux’s sweetheart,” replied the other, with a grin.