While Robin deliberated of whom to inquire respecting his kinsman's
dwelling, he was accosted by the innkeeper, a little man in a
stained white apron, who had come to pay his professional welcome to
the stranger. Being in the second generation from a French Protestant,
he seemed to have inherited the courtesy of his parent nation; but
no variety of circumstances was ever known to change his voice from
the one shrill note in which he now addressed Robin.
"From the country, I presume, sir?" said he, with a profound bow.
"Beg leave to congratulate you on your arrival, and trust you intend a
long stay with us. Fine town here, sir, beautiful buildings, and
much that may interest a stranger. May I hope for the honor of your
commands in respect to supper?"
"The man sees a family likeness! the rogue has guessed that I am
related to the major!" thought Robin, who had hitherto experienced
little superfluous civility.
All eyes were now turned on the country lad, standing at the
door, in his worn three-cornered hat, gray coat, leather breeches, and
blue yarn stockings, leaning on an oaken cudgel, and bearing a
wallet on his back.
Robin replied to the courteous innkeeper, with such an assumption
of confidence as befitted the major's relative.
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