manhood, without a single coarse feature. His manner, although
quiet, gave the impression of keen enthusiasm, or, more rightly
speaking, of unworldly inspiration. All who saw him were powerfully
attracted, but half-unconsciously felt a slight doubt whether even
so fine a specimen of manhood was quite fitly organized and equipped
for the strife of existence. At the university he had been given the
nickname of Wilhelmina, on account of a certain gentleness and
delicacy of manner, and because he neither drank nor smoked. Such
jokes, not ill-natured, were directed against his outward
appearance, but had a shade of meaning as regards his character.

As Wilhelm walked into the courtyard of the Schloss hotel he stopped
a moment to regain his breath. Before him was the stately new house,
whose white-painted walls and many windows had looked down on the
high-road; to the left stood the round tower inclosed within a
ruined wall, shading an airy lattice-work building, in which on a
raised wooden floor stood a table and some benches. Several people,
evidently guests at the hotel, sat there drinking wine and beer, and
eying the newcomer curiously. The burly landlord, in village dress,
emerged from the open door of the cellar in the tower, and wished
him "good-day." He had a thick beard and a sunburned face, with
good-natured blue eyes. With a searching glance at the young man's
cap and knapsack, he waited for Wilhelm to speak.

"Can I have a room looking on to the valley?" asked the latter.

"Not at this moment," the landlord answered, clearing his throat
loudly; "there is hardly a room free here, and that only in the top
story. But to-morrow, or the day after, many people are leaving, and
then I can give you what you want."