"Shaved his beard!" exclaimed her mother. "Who says so?"

"Johann, the duke's keeper. He has seen the King."

"Ah, yes. The King, sir, is now at the duke's hunting-lodge in the
forest here; from here he goes to Strelsau to be crowned on Wednesday
morning."

I was interested to hear this, and made up my mind to walk next day in
the direction of the lodge, on the chance of coming across the King. The
old lady ran on garrulously:

"Ah, and I wish he would stay at his hunting--that and wine (and one
thing more) are all he loves, they say--and suffer our duke to be
crowned on Wednesday. That I wish, and I don't care who knows it."

"Hush, mother!" urged the daughters.

"Oh, there's many to think as I do!" cried the old woman stubbornly.

I threw myself back in my deep armchair, and laughed at her zeal.

"For my part," said the younger and prettier of the two daughters, a
fair, buxom, smiling wench, "I hate Black Michael! A red Elphberg for
me, mother! The King, they say, is as red as a fox or as--"

And she laughed mischievously as she cast a glance at me, and tossed her
head at her sister's reproving face.

"Many a man has cursed their red hair before now," muttered the old