The Inn of the Winged God
cheeks flaming as she backed away, rubbing the caressed spot with the corner of her apron.
O'Rourke laughed softly, without moving. "Don't be angry with me," he pleaded, but with no evident contrition. "What's in a kiss, me dear? Sure, 'tis no harm at all, at all! And how was I to hold meself back, now, with ye before me, pretty as a picture?"
It pleased her—his ready tongue. That became apparent, though she sought to hide it with a pretense of indignation.
"One would think—" she tried to storm.
"What, now, darlint?"
"One would almost believe m'sieur the Irishman!"
"An Irishman I am, praises be!" cried O'Rourke, forgetting his rôle. "But"—he remembered again—"the Irishman; now, who might that be?"
"M'sieur le Colonel O'Rourke!"
"What!" And M'sieur le Colonel O'Rourke got down from the table hastily. "Ye know me?" he demanded.
The girl's astonishment was too plain to be ignored. "It is not that m'sieur is himself M'sieur le Colonel?" she cried,, putting a discreet distance between them.
"'Tis just that. And how would ye be knowing me name, if ye please?"
"Why, surely, all know that m'sieur is coming to Lützelburg!" cried the ingenuous mam'selle. "Else why should a guard be stationed at every road crossing the frontier?"
"For what, will ye tell me?"
"For what but to keep m'sieur from entering?"
"As ye say, for what else?" O'Rourke stroked his chin, puzzled, staring at this girl who had such an astonishing fund of information.
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