Men came and went through the Inn of the Golden Lion.  Sometimes soldiers and officers as well as civilians sought its food and fire.  The day had turned darker, full of raw cold, and a light hail was falling.  John was glad to have a place in the inn.  He reflected that a man’s good luck and bad luck in the long run were about even, and, after so much bad luck, the good luck should be coming his way.  He would certainly remain in the inn that night if he could, and a bench before the fire would be a sufficient bed for the peasant he seemed to be, at such a time, with the city full of troops, and the French batteries almost near enough to be heard.

More officers were coming in now.  Some of them stood before the great fire, warming themselves and drying their uniforms, the hail having begun to drive harder.  He thought he might see some one whom he knew.  It was possible that von Arnheim, the young prince of whom he had such pleasant memories, was in Metz, and it was possible also that he might come to the Inn of the Golden Lion.  And there was young Kratzek, who he knew had been exchanged.  Some chance might make him, too, enter the inn, but John’s second thought told him the fulfillment of his wish would be folly.  They were his official enemies and must seize him if he made himself known to them.  He was merely lonesome, longing for the sight of a familiar face.

His own appearance had been changed greatly by a stubby young beard that called aloud for a razor.  Clad in a peasant’s garb, and with a cap drawn down over his face Carstairs and Wharton themselves might have passed without knowing him.

Although the young Germans did not appear, one whom John expected least came.  A man of medium size, built compactly, and with a short brown beard, trimmed neatly to a point, walked briskly through the room, and spread out cold hands before the flames.  John was dozing in his chair, but the man’s walk and manner roused him at once.  They seemed familiar, and a glance at the face showed him that it was Weber.

He resisted a powerful impulse to call to him or to signal to him in some manner.  The impulse was strong to recognize the appearance of a friend, but he understood the deadly danger of it.  He was a spy and so was Weber.  By recognition each might betray the other, and it was best that he should not attract the Alsatian’s attention in any way.  So he pretended to doze again, although he was really watchful.

Weber stood by the fire a little while, until he was warm.  Then he sat down in one of the chairs and called for beer and sausage, which he drank and ate slowly and with evident relish.  His eye roved about the room and once or twice fell upon John, but did not linger there.  Evidently he did not recognize the peasant with the stubby growth of young beard.  Nor did he appear to know anyone else in the room, and, after a few inquiring glances, he seemed to be busy with his own thoughts.