The traveller started up in the carriage and looked around him. He was dressed in a sort of loose shooting-jacket of gray cloth, which completely concealed his figure; and his dark-green felt hat was slouched over his face, leaving little visible excepting the mustache, surmounted by a well-formed aquiline nose. “Is no one here?” he cried, exhibiting some very unequivocal signs of impatience; and a servant in plain livery came at full speed, followed by half a dozen men and women, who were soon all employed unpacking the carriage. Carpet-bag, meerschaum pipes of different forms and dimensions, newspapers, cigar-cases, boots, powder-horn, umbrella, double-barrelled gun, sketch-book, a very old pistol, a very new rifle, and some rolls of bread, followed each other in odd confusion. Some one at a window not distant from Hamilton laughed heartily; the traveller looked up, laughed also, and flourished his hat in the air. “What a dusty figure!” exclaimed the invisible. “Have you brought no trophy? No venison for our landlady?” “The chamois hunt was unsuccessful, although I remained out all night; but my new rifle performed wonders at the _Scheiben schiessen_.” Another laugh from the window made him seize his rifle, and jestingly point it upwards—it was, however, directly thrown aside, while he half-apologetically exclaimed, “It cannot go off, I assure you. Look here, it is not even loaded,” and he grasped the ramrod to prove his assertion; but some unexpected impediment in the barrel caused him to grow suddenly red—he raised the offending weapon as if with the intention of firing it off, but after a hasty glance towards the window, he gave it to one of the bystanders, requesting him to draw out the charge, and then ran quickly into the house. In the meantime, Hamilton’s coachman had brought up his luggage, and a chambermaid waited to know whether or not he intended to sup below stairs. Supper would be in the little room through which he had passed on his entrance, as there were too few people for the saloon. Perhaps he wished to sup in his own room? “By no means, I always prefer a _table-d’hôte_. Pray, can you tell me the names of some of the people here? I may, perhaps, have an acquaintance among them.” “Major Stultz, from Munich. The family who have just arrived are the Rosenbergs, from——” “I know—I know,” cried Hamilton, nodding his head. “Then there is Mr. Schmearer, landscape-painter, and Count Zedwitz—his wife and daughter——” “Who do you say?” said Hamilton, suddenly recollecting A. Z. “Count Zedwitz and the Countess, and——” “Can they speak English?” “Oh, no doubt; and French, too, quite perfectly; they speak a great many languages.” “They are not, however, invalids? That is, they are not here on account of the baths?” “No; I believe they came to meet some friends whom they intended to have visited. I heard the Count’s servants saying that their house, or the Baron’s, was full of masons and painters.” “Ah! exactly——”