“This seat is not reserved, Herr?” he asked pleasantly, with his hand on the back of the chair.

“No.”  There was no cordiality in the answer.  The vintner turned back the lid of his stein and drank slowly.

Carmichael sat down sidewise, viewing the scene with never-waning interest.  These German taverns were the delight of his soul.  Everybody was so kindly and orderly and hungry.  They ate and drank like persons whose consciences were not overburdened.  From the corner of his eye he observed that the vintner was studying him.  Now this vintner’s face was something familiar.  Carmichael stirred his memory.  It was not in Dreiberg that he had seen him before.  But where?

Gretchen arrived with the tankard which she sat down at Carmichael’s elbow.

“Will you not join me, Herr?” he invited.

“Thank you,” said the vintner, without hesitation.

He smiled at Gretchen and she smiled at him.  Carmichael smiled at them both tolerantly.

“What will you be drinking?”

“Brown,” said the vintner.

Gretchen took up the empty tankard and made off.  The eyes of the two men followed her till she reached the dim bar, then their glances swung round and met.  Carmichael was first to speak, not because he was forced to, but because it was his fancy at that moment to give the vintner the best of it.

“She is a fine girl.”

“Yes,” tentatively.

“She is the handsomest peasant I ever saw or knew.”

“You know her?” There was a spark in the vintner’s eyes.

“Only for a few days.  She interests me.”  Carmichael produced a pipe and lighted it.

“Ah, yes, the pretty peasant girl always interests you gentlemen.”  There was a note of bitterness.  “Did you come here to seek her?”

“This is the first time I ever saw her here.  And let me add,” evenly, “that my interest in her is not of the order you would infer.  She is good and patient and brave, and my interest in her is impersonal.  It is not necessary for me to make any explanations, but I do so.”

“Pardon me!” The vintner was plainly abashed.

“Granted.  But you, you seem to possess a peculiar interest.”

The vintner flushed.  “I have that right,” with an air which rather mystified Carmichael.

“That explains everything.  I do not recollect seeing you before in the Black Eagle.”

“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.”