in silence.
"I was not clever like Fritz," he went on presently. "When I left Heidelberg, I went into business, I am a brewer, and I live at Stuttgart. My name is Gustav Bergheim—what is yours?"
"Hamilton," I replied; "Chandos Hamilton."
He repeated the name after me.
"You are an Englishman?" he said.
I nodded.
"Good. I like the English. There was an Englishman at Heidelberg—such a good fellow! his name was Smith. Do you know him?"
I explained that, in these fortunate islands, there were probably some thirty thousand persons named Smith, of whom, however, I did not know one.
"And are you a milord, and a Member of Parliament?"
I laughed, and shook my head.
"No, indeed," I replied; "neither. I read for the bar; but I do not practise. I am an idle man—of very little use to myself, and of none to my country."
"You are travelling for your amusement?"
"I am. I have just been through the Tyrol and as far as the Italian lakes—on foot, as you see me. But tell me about yourself. That is far more interesting."
"About myself?" he said smiling. "Ah, mein Herr, there is not much to tell. I have told you that I live at Stuttgart. Well, at this time of the year, I allow myself a few weeks' holiday, and I am now on my way to Frankfort, to see my Mädchen, who lives there with her parents."
"Then I may congratulate you on the certainty of a pleasant time."
"Indeed, yes. We love each other well, my Mädchen and I. Her name is Frederika, and her father is a rich banker and wine merchant. They live in the Neue Mainzer Strasse near the Taunus Gate; but the Herr Hamilton does not, perhaps, know Frankfort?"
I replied that I knew Frankfort very well, and that the Neue Mainzer Strasse was, to my thinking, the pleasantest situation in the city. And then I ventured to ask if the Fräulein Frederika was pretty.
"I think her so," he said with his boyish smile; "but then, you see, my eyes are in love. You shall judge, however, for yourself."
And with this, he disengaged a locket from his watch-chain, opened it, and showed me the portrait of a golden-haired girl, who, without being actually handsome, had a face as pleasant to look upon as his own.
"Well?" he said anxiously. "What do you say?"
"I say that she has a charming expression," I replied.
"But you do not think her pretty?"
"Nay, she is better than pretty. She has the beauty of real goodness."
His face glowed with pleasure.
"It is true," he said, kissing the portrait, and replacing it upon his chain. "She is an angel! We are to be married in the Spring."
Just at this moment, a sturdy peasant came trudging up from the direction of Niedersdorf, under the shade of a huge red cotton umbrella. He had taken his coat off; probably for coolness, or it might be for economy, and was carrying it, neatly folded up, in a large, new wooden bucket. He saluted us with the usual "Guten Abend" as he approached.
To which Bergheim laughingly replied by asking if the bucket was a love-token from his sweetheart.
"Nein, nein," he answered stolidly; "I bought it at the Kermess[A] up yonder."
[A] Kermess—A fair.
"So! there is a Kermess at Niedersdorf?"
"Ach, Himmel!—a famous Kermess. All the world is there to-day."
And with a nod, he passed on his way.
My new friend indulged in a long and dismal whistle.
"Der Teufel!" he said, "this is awkward. I'll be bound, now, there won't be a vacant room at any inn in the town. And I had intended to sleep at Niedersdorf to-night. Had you?"
"Well, I should have been guided by circumstances. I should perhaps have put up at Niedersdorf, if I had found myself tired and the place comfortable; or I might have dined there, and after dinner taken some kind of light vehicle as far as Rotheskirche."
"Rotheskirche!" he repeated. "Where is that?"
"It is a village on the Neckar. My guide-book mentions it as a good starting-point for pedestrians, and I am going to walk from there to Heidelberg."
"But have you not been coming out of your way?"
"No; I have only taken a short cut inland, and avoided the dull part of the river. You know the Neckar, of course?"
"Only as far as Neckargemünd; but I have heard that higher up it is almost as fine as the Rhine."
"Hadn't you better join me?" I said, as we adjusted our knapsacks and prepared to resume our journey.
He shook his head, smiling.
"Nay," he replied, "my route leads me by Buchen and Darmstadt. I have no business to go round by Heidelberg."
"It would be worth the détour."
"Ah, yes; but it would throw me two days later."
"Not if you made up for lost time by taking the train from Heidelberg."
He hesitated.
"I should like it," he said.
"Then why not do it?"
"Well—yes—I will do it. I will go with you. There! let us shake hands on it, and be friends."
So we shook hands, and it was settled.
The shadows were now beginning to lengthen; but the sun still blazed in the heavens with unabated intensity. Bergheim, however, strode on as lightly, and chatted as gaily, as if his day's work was only just beginning. Never was there so simple, so open-hearted a fellow. He wore his heart literally upon his sleeve, and, as we went along, told me all his little history; how, for instance, his elder sister, having been betrothed to his friend Fritz, had kept single ever since for his sake; how he was himself an only son, and the idol of his mother, now a widow; how he had resolved never to leave either her or his maiden sister; but intended when he married to take a larger house, and bring his wife into their common home; how Frederika's father had at first opposed their engagement for that reason; how Frederika (being, as he had already said, an angel) had won the father's consent last New Year's Day; and how happy he was now; and how happy they should be in the good time coming; together with much more to the same effect.
To all this I listened, and smiled, and assented, putting in a word here and there, as occasion offered, and encouraging him to talk on to his heart's content.
And now with every mile that brought us nearer to Niedersdorf, the signs of fair-time increased and multiplied. First came straggling groups of homeward-bound peasants—old men and women tottering under the burden of newly-purchased household goods; little children laden with gingerbread and toys; young men and women in their holiday-best—the latter with garlands of oak-leaves bound about their hats. Then came an open cart full of laughing girls; then more pedestrians; then an old man driving a particularly unwilling pig; then a roystering party of foot-soldiers; and so on, till not only the road, but the fields on either side and every path in sight, swarmed with a double stream of wayfarers—the one coming from the fair—the other setting towards it.
Presently, through the clouds of dust and tobacco-smoke that fouled the air, a steeple and cottages became visible; and then, quite suddenly, we found ourselves in the midst of the fair.
Here a compact, noisy, smoking, staring, laughing, steaming crowd circulated among the booths; some pushing one way, some