_Iden._ What ho, there! bustle! Without there, Herman, Weilburg, Peter, Conrad! [_Gives directions to different servants who enter_. A nobleman sleeps here to-night--see that 260 All is in order in the damask chamber-- Keep up the stove--I will myself to the cellar-- And Madame Idenstein (my consort, stranger,) Shall furnish forth the bed-apparel; for, To say the truth, they are marvellous scant of this Within the palace precincts, since his Highness Left it some dozen years ago. And then His Excellency will sup, doubtless? _Gab._ Faith! I cannot tell; but I should think the pillow Would please him better than the table, after 270 His soaking in your river: but for fear Your viands should be thrown away, I mean To sup myself, and have a friend without Who will do honour to your good cheer with A traveller's appetite. _Iden._ But are you sure His Excellency----But his name: what is it? _Gab._ I do not know. _Iden._ And yet you saved his life. _Gab._ I helped my friend to do so. _Iden._ Well, that's strange, To save a man's life whom you do not know. _Gab._ Not so; for there are some I know so well, 280 I scarce should give myself the trouble. _Iden._ Pray, Good friend, and who may you be? _Gab._ By my family, Hungarian. _Iden._ Which is called? _Gab._ It matters little. _Iden._ (_aside_). I think that all the world are grown anonymous, Since no one cares to tell me what he's called! Pray, has his Excellency a large suite? _Gab._ Sufficient. _Iden._ How many? _Gab._ I did not count them. We came up by mere accident, and just In time to drag him through his carriage window. _Iden._ Well, what would I give to save a great man! 290 No doubt you'll have a swingeing sum as recompense. _Gab._ Perhaps. _Iden._ Now, how much do you reckon on? _Gab._ I have not yet put up myself to sale: In the mean time, my best reward would be A glass of your[166] Hockcheimer--a _green_ glass, Wreathed with rich grapes and Bacchanal devices, O'erflowing with the oldest of your vintage: For which I promise you, in case you e'er Run hazard of being drowned, (although I own It seems, of all deaths, the least likely for you,) 300 I'll pull you out for nothing. Quick, my friend, And think, for every bumper I shall quaff, A wave the less may roll above your head.