Jannetton vowed she had no fears; and went forth into the deepening twilight, being shortly afterwards followed by the gentleman in cocked-hat and surtout. Curiosity did not now dog the Flemish pilgrims, as it had done while they were altogether novelties, and the adventurers slipped out unobserved. Meanwhile the ‘long-haired page’ was busy at one of the side-doors of the castle, where he was often wont to converse with the sentinel on duty. ‘I don’t envy you your trade, Martin,’ he said, standing within the porch, to the hapless soldier pacing up and down in the keen wind. ‘Glory is one thing and comfort another; but after all, very often no one hears of the glory, whereas the comfort is a tangible benefit. With the wind in the north-east and a snow-storm beginning, I at least would rather be comfortable than glorious.’ ‘A man who has seen campaigns thinks but little of a snow-storm, Herr Konska.’ ‘But they generally put you into winter-quarters,’ said Konska, not wishing the sentinel to pique himself on his hardihood. ‘No matter; a soldier learns what hardship is. I wish you could see a shot-and-shell storm instead of a snow-storm, or a forest of bayonets poked into your face by those demons of Irish in the French service.’ ‘Well, I say it is a shame not to treat you men better who have braved all that. See here; there is not even a sentry-box where you can nurse your freezing feet. Ugh!’ And Konska withdrew, presumably to warmer regions, while the soldier preserved a heroic appearance as he paced shivering on his narrow beat. But a few minutes later Konska, stealing back to the door, saw that his martial friend was no longer at his post. The impish page pointed for a moment in ecstasy to a tavern temptingly visible from the sentry’s beat. Then he darted back in delight to whence he came. While the snow-clouds were gathering over Innsbruck, and before the Flemish chevalier had put on his surtout, two ladies conversed in low tones in a chamber of the castle, of which General Heister was then the commandant. Only one lady was visible; rather elderly, very stately, and somewhat careworn in appearance. But that the other speaker was of gentle sex and rank might be presumed from the tones of a voice which issued from the closed curtains of the bed. It might even be the voice of a young girl. ‘I hope you will not get into trouble, mamma,’ said the mysterious occupier of the bed. ‘Hardly, if you write a proper letter on the subject of your departure, as the Chevalier Wogan advises. You must cover my complicity by begging my pardon.’ ‘I am afraid you must write it yourself, mamma, as I am _hors de combat_.’