Wilhelm Eynhardt was a young man of twenty-four, tall and slim of figure, with a strikingly handsome face.  His eyes were almond-shaped, not large but very dark, with much charm of expression.  The finely-marked eyebrows served by their raven blackness to emphasize the whiteness of the forehead, which was crowned by an abundant mass of curling black hair.  His fresh complexion had still the bloom of early youth, and would hardly have betrayed his age, if it had not been shaded by a dark brown silky beard, which had never known a razor.  It was an entirely uncommon type, recalling in profile, Antinous, and the full face reminding one of the St. Sebastian of Guido Roni in the museum of the Capitol; a face of the noblest manhood, without a single coarse feature.  His manner, although quiet, gave the impression of keen enthusiasm, or, more rightly speaking, of unworldly inspiration.  All who saw him were powerfully attracted, but half-unconsciously felt a slight doubt whether even so fine a specimen of manhood was quite fitly organized and equipped for the strife of existence.  At the university he had been given the nickname of Wilhelmina, on account of a certain gentleness and delicacy of manner, and because he neither drank nor smoked.  Such jokes, not ill-natured, were directed against his outward appearance, but had a shade of meaning as regards his character.

As Wilhelm walked into the courtyard of the Schloss hotel he stopped a moment to regain his breath.  Before him was the stately new house, whose white-painted walls and many windows had looked down on the high-road; to the left stood the round tower inclosed within a ruined wall, shading an airy lattice-work building, in which on a raised wooden floor stood a table and some benches.  Several people, evidently guests at the hotel, sat there drinking wine and beer, and eying the newcomer curiously.  The burly landlord, in village dress, emerged from the open door of the cellar in the tower, and wished him “good-day.”  He had a thick beard and a sunburned face, with good-natured blue eyes.  With a searching glance at the young man’s cap and knapsack, he waited for Wilhelm to speak.

“Can I have a room looking on to the valley?” asked the latter.

“Not at this moment,” the landlord answered, clearing his throat loudly; “there is hardly a room free here, and that only in the top story.  But to-morrow, or the day after, many people are leaving, and then I can give you what you want.”

Wilhelm’s face clouded with disappointment, but only for a moment, then he said:  “Very well, I will stay.”

“Luggage?” said the landlord, in his short, unceremonious way.  “My luggage is at Haslach.  It can come up to-morrow.”

“Bertha,” called the landlord, in such a strident tone that the mountains echoed the sound.  The visitors drinking in the kiosk smiled; they were well accustomed to the man.  A neat red-cheeked girl appeared in the doorway.  “Number 47,” shouted the landlord, and went off to his other duties.