“Which means——?”

“That the American says in one sentence what it would take a German or a Frenchman several hundred sentences to say.”

Gretchen was growing more interesting every minute.

“Then your mirror and I are not the only ones who have told you that you are as beautiful as Hebe herself?”

“I am not Hebe,” coldly.  “I am a poor barmaid, and I never spill any wine.”

“So you understand mythology?” I cried in wonder.

“Does Herr think that all barmaids are as ignorant as fiction and ill-meaning novelists depict them?  I have had a fair education.”

“If I ever was guilty of thinking so,” said I, answering her question, “I promise never to think so again.”

“And now will Herr go to his breakfast and let me attend to my duties?”

“Not without regret,” I said gallantly.  I bowed to her as they bowed in the days of the beaux, while she looked on suspiciously.

At the breakfast table I proceeded to bombard the innkeeper.  I wanted to know more about Gretchen.

“Is Gretchen your daughter?” I began.

“No, I am only her godfather,” he said.  “Does Herr wish another egg?”

“Thanks.  She is very well educated for a barmaid.”

“Yes.  Does Herr wish Rhine wine?”

“Coffee is plenty.  Has Gretchen seen many Americans?”

“Few.  Perhaps Herr would like a knoblauch with salt and vinegar?”

It occurred to me that Gretchen was not to be discussed.  So I made for another channel.

“I have heard,” said I, “that once upon a time a princess was born in this inn?”

The old fellow elevated both eyebrows and shoulders—­a deprecating movement.

“They say that of every inn; it has become a trade.”

If I had known the old man I might have said that he was sarcastic.

“Then there is no truth in it?” disappointedly.

“Oh, I do not say there is no truth in the statement; if Herr will pardon me, it is something I do not like to talk about.”

“Ah, then there is a mystery?” I cried, with lively interest, pushing back my chair.

But the innkeeper shook his head determinedly.

“Very well,” I laughed; “I shall ask Gretchen.”

He smiled.  The smile said:  “Much good it will do you.”

Gretchen was in the barroom arranging some roses over the fireplace.  Her hands were bare; they were small and white, and surprisingly well kept.

“Gretchen,” said I, “I want you to tell me the legend of the inn.”

“The legend?”

“Yes; about the Princess who was born here.”

Gretchen laughed a merry laugh.  The laugh said:  “You are an amusing person!”

“Ah, the American is always after legends when he has tired of collecting antiquities.  Was there a Princess born here?  Perhaps.  At any rate it is not a legend; history nor peasantry make mention of it.  Will Herr be so kind as to carry the ladder to the mantel so I may wind the clock?”