Once John was compelled to show the German passport.  It was of no use in Austria, except as a proof of identity, and good faith, and as such it served him well.

In the afternoon he began to ascend the slope that confined the southern side of the valley, and toward night he drew near to Zillenstein.  The view of the castle here was less clear than from the other side of the valley.  Patches of pine on the slopes beneath hid many of the towers and battlements, but he saw lights shining from lofty windows, and about the castle were many small houses.  He surmised that Zillenstein and its surroundings had not changed much since the Middle Ages.  Here was the castle, and below it were the cottages and huts of the peasants and retainers who might be as loyal as ever to the prince whose lineage was more ancient than that of either Hohenzollern or Hapsburg.

Two young hussars riding down the road, their horses’ hoofs ringing on the stones, brought back the modern world.  They were gay young fellows, smoking cigarettes, their Austrian caps tipped back to let the cool breeze blow upon their foreheads, and they called cheerfully to the strong young peasant who walked slowly up the road.  John lifted his cap and answered in a tone that was respectful but not servile.

“You look like one who has traveled far,” said the younger of the two, a mere boy.

“From Lorraine,” answered John.  “My name is Jean Castel, which is French, but I, its owner, am not.  My family became German before I was born, and has been so ever since.”

“Ah, I see, made German by strength of arms.”

“And growing more German every day by will and liking.”

“You speak well for a peasant.”

“I was a dealer in horses, which took me much over the land and everyone who travels learns.  See, here is my passport.”

“Why should I look at your passport?”

“Everyone else does.  Then why not you?”

“No, I don’t want to see it.  I take your word for it You couldn’t have come so deep into Germany, unless you were one of us.  What do you seek at the castle?”

“My trade is gone and I want work with the horses.  There must surely be a place on the estate of so great a prince.”

“There is, but he wants good men, the very best.”

“Let him try me.”

“I’ll try you now.”

The hussar leaped from his horse and asked John to get into the saddle.  John had noticed that it was a big brute with a red eye, and every other indication of a wicked temper, but in his earlier youth he had spent a year on a great ranch belonging to his uncle in Montana, and the cowboys had taught him everything.  He was quite aware that a dramatic effect would be useful to him now, and he decided to temporize a little in order that the culmination might be greater.

“It has been my business,” he said, “to try and sell horses, not to ride them.”