The sudden appearance of a dashing dragoon was an event in an old inn,
frequented only by the peaceful sons of traffic. A rich burgher of
Antwerp, a stately ample man, in a broad Flemish hat, and who was the
great man and great patron of the establishment, sat smoking a clean
long pipe on one side of the door; a fat little distiller of Geneva
from Schiedam, sat smoking on the other, and the bottle-nosed host
stood in the door, and the comely hostess, in crimped cap, beside him;
and the hostess' daughter, a plump Flanders lass, with long gold
pendants in her ears, was at a side window.
"Humph!" said the rich burgher of Antwerp, with a sulky glance at the
stranger.
"Der duyvel!" said the fat little distiller of Schiedam.
The landlord saw with the quick glance of a publican that the new guest
was not at all, at all, to the taste of the old ones; and to tell the
truth, he did not himself like my grandfather's saucy eye.
He shook his head - "Not a garret in the house but was full."
"Not a garret!" echoed the landlady.
"Not a garret!" echoed the daughter.
The burgher of Antwerp and the little distiller of Schiedam continued
to smoke their pipes sullenly, eyed the enemy askance from under their
broad hats, but said nothing.
