Hillars and I stood in the middle of the road. He held the binoculars.

"How many can you make out?" I asked.

"Four; all on horseback. There's a coach of some sort following on
behind. But everything is blurred and my hand trembles; the whiskey
here is terrible. Here, look for yourself," handing the glasses to me.
"Tell me what you see."

"There's one with a white cap--ah, it is Count von Walden! There are
two soldiers in the Hohenphalian uniform; cavalry. I do not know who
the fourth fellow is."

"Describe him to me," said Hillars, trying to roll a cigarette with his
trembling fingers. "Curse it!" throwing away the rice paper, "I've got
so bad that I can't roll a cigarette. Well, what's he look like?"

"He's in civilian dress; little black mustache and an imperial."

"Look anything like Napoleon III?"

"You've hit it. Who is he?"

"They say he's Prince Ernst of Wortumborg," said Hillars; "but it is my
opinion that he's the devil on a furlough."

"Then he is the man--" I began.

"He is. Your love affair is all over once he gets here; unless--" Dan
looked at the sky as though he was undecided about the weather.

"Unless what?" I asked.

"O, just unless," said he. "I'd give 5 pounds for a glass of home-made
whiskey."