The Inn of the Winged God
of white, with riding boots of patent leather—the officers' uniform of the ducal army of Lützelburg.
Now, since his coming, the taproom of the Winged God had been gradually darkening as evening drew nigh. Already—O'Rourke was surprised to observe—it was twilight without; now, suddenly, the sun sank behind the purple ridge of the distant mountains, and at once gloom shrouded the room. In it the figures of the two soldiers loomed large and vaguely.
One raised his voice, calling: "Lights!"
The girl murmured something, moving away.
"Lights, girl; lights!"
"I will send some one, messieurs," O'Rourke heard her say.
"Unnecessary, my dear," returned the first speaker. "Come hither, little one. Here is the lamp, and here a match."
Unwillingly, it seemed to the Irishman, the inn maid obeyed, stepping upon a bench and raising her arm to light the single lamp that depended from the ceiling. A match flared in her fingers, illuminating the upturned, intent face.
And O'Rourke caught at his breath again. "Faith!" he said softly, "she is that wonderful!"
Some such thought seemed to cross the minds of both the others, at the same moment. One swore delicately—presumably in admiration; his fellow shifted to a killing pose, twirling his mustache—the elder of the pair, evidently, and a man with a striking distinction of carriage.
The girl jumped lightly from the bench and turned away; but she was not yet to be permitted to retire, it seemed.
"Here, girl!" called he who had mouthed the oath.
She turned reluctantly; the glow of the brightening lamp fell about her like a golden aureole.
[ 209 ]
