Many Months Had Elapsed Since Wolfert Had Frequented His Old Resort,
The Rural Inn.
He was taking a long lonely walk one Saturday afternoon,
musing over his wants and disappointments, when his feet took
instinctively their wonted direction, and on awaking out of a reverie,
he found himself before the door of the inn.
For some moments he
hesitated whether to enter, but his heart yearned for companionship;
and where can a ruined man find better companionship than at a tavern,
where there is neither sober example nor sober advice to put him out of
countenance?
Wolfert found several of the old frequenters of the tavern at their
usual posts, and seated in their usual places; but one was missing, the
great Ramm Rapelye, who for many years had filled the chair of state.
His place was supplied by a stranger, who seemed, however, completely
at home in the chair and the tavern. He was rather under-size, but
deep-chested, square, and muscular. His broad shoulders, double joints,
and bow-knees, gave tokens of prodigious strength. His face was dark
and weather-beaten; a deep scar, as if from the slash of a cutlass, had
almost divided his nose, and made a gash in his upper lip, through
which his teeth shone like a bull-dog's. A mass of iron gray hair gave
a grizzly finish to his hard-favored visage. His dress was of an
amphibious character. He wore an old hat edged with tarnished lace, and
cocked in martial style, on one side of his head; a rusty blue military
coat with brass buttons, and a wide pair of short petticoat trousers,
or rather breeches, for they were gathered up at the knees.
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