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"Come to the Inn of the Golden Lion," he said to Scheller, for whom he had a genuine friendly feeling, "and take a glass of beer with me. I was wandering about, and it interested me to see the great people go into the hotel or come out." "A half-dozen of our famous generals are there," said Scheller, who seemed to be both well informed now and talkative.
"Here's to the meeting in Paris," he said, but he added under his breath, "may it happen, with you as my unwounded prisoner." He left Scheller after thanks for the ride, and found his way to the Inn of the Golden Lion, which was crowded with stout farmers and peasants.
Scheller was not loath, and before the great fire John toasted his health in a huge foaming mug, and Scheller toasted back again. Then the sergeant gave him a grip of his mighty hand and told him good-by. "I like you, Castel, lad," he said, "and whatever you want I hope you'll get it." John, imaginative at all times, but with his nerves keyed to the highest pitch now, took it as an omen.
But no others struck near them, although the intermittent battle of artillery in the hills continued. Sergeant Scheller paid no attention to the distant cannon fire, to which he had grown so used long since that he regarded it as one of the ordinary accompaniments of life, like the blowing of the wind.
At least I thought him such by his uniform, and taking off my cap to honor him I forgot to put in back again." Scheller burst into a roar. "Why, it's our Castel once more!" he exclaimed. "Good, honest, simple, patriotic Castel! You can take off your cap when a general passes, but you needn't keep it off after he's gone." "I thought it might be our great Kaiser himself."
Eventually I was aware that the courteous Von Scheller, standing at my elbow, was repeating something he had already stated at least once. "Those brighter flashes you see, apparently coming from below the other lights, are our guns," he was saying. "They seem to be below the others because they are nearer to us.
I think, from their sound, they were French shells." This debonair gentleman, as presently transpired, was Colonel von Scheller, for four years consul to the German Embassy at Washington, more lately minister for foreign affairs of the kingdom of Saxony, and now doing staff duty in the ordnance department here at the German center.
It was precious information, given casually by a chance acquaintance, and John believed that it was true. It was in the region of Salzburg that his great Odyssey had begun, and now it seemed that chance, after many a curve through the smoke of battle, was taking him back there. "I'm off duty, Castel, and I'll be glad to go with you," he heard Scheller saying.
The kindly Scheller little dreamed what he sought, but the good wishes of a sergeant might have as much effect as those of a general or a prince with the Supreme Power. "Farewell, lad," said Scheller again, and, "Farewell," John responded. When he was gone John sank back into his chair.
Scheller threw back his great head and laughed. "If a horse had approached where I worked," he said, "much good beer would have been spilt. I was the head waiter in a restaurant on the Unter den Linden. Ah, the happy days! Oh, the glorious street! and here it's nothing but march, march, and shoot, shoot! Three of my best waiters have been killed already. And the other lads are no horsemen either.
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