whatever it is called. It
delivers letters all over Prussia--eh? and Poland perhaps--or farther
still."

Sebastian shrugged one shoulder, and made no answer for some time.

"I have already told you," he said impatiently, at length, "to forget
the incident; you were paid."

By way of reply, the old soldier laboriously emptied his pockets,
searching the most remote of them for small copper coins. He counted
slowly and carefully until he had made up a thaler.

"But it is not my turn to be paid this time. It is I who pay."

He held out his hand with a pound weight of base metal in it, but
Sebastian refused the money with a sudden assumption of his cold and
scornful manner, oddly out of keeping with his humble surroundings.

"As between friends--" suggested Barlasch, and, on receiving a more
decided negative, returned the coins to his pocket, not without
satisfaction.

"I want your friends to pass on a letter for me--I am willing to pay,"
he said in a whisper. "A letter to Captain Louis d'Arragon--it concerns
the happiness of Mademoiselle Desiree. Do not shake your head. Think
before you refuse. The letter will be an open one--six words or
so--telling the Captain that his cousin, Mademoiselle's husband, is not
in Dantzig, and cannot now return here since the last of the rearguard
entered the city this morning."

Sebastian seemed to be considering the matter, and Barlasch was quick to
combat possible objections.

"The Captain went to Konigsberg. He is there now. Your friends can
easily find him, and give him the letter. It is of great importance to
Mademoiselle. The Captain is not looking for Monsieur Charles Darragon,
because he thinks that he is here in Dantzig. Colonel de Casimir assured
him that Mademoiselle would find him here. Where is he--that Monsieur
Charles--I wonder? It is of great importance to Mademoiselle. The
Captain would perhaps continue his search."

"Where is your letter?" asked Sebastian.

By way of reply, Barlasch laid on the table a sheet of paper.

"You must write it," he said. "My hand is injured. I write not badly,
you understand. But this evening I do not feel that my hand is well
enough."

So, with the sticky, thick ink of the Weissen Ross'l, Sebastian wrote
the letter, and Barlasch, forgetting his scholarly acquirements, took
the pen and made a mark beneath his own name written at the foot of it.

Then he went out, and left Sebastian to pay for the beer.

CHAPTER XXVI. ON THE