But Barlasch saw him, and
scratched his head at the sight.
The northern evenings are chill even in June, and Sebastian fumbled
with his cloak. It would appear that he was little used to helping
himself in such matters. Barlasch came out of the kitchen when
Sebastian's back was turned and helped him to put the flowing cloak
straight upon his shoulders.
"Thank you, Lisa, thank you," said Sebastian in German, without
looking round. By accident Barlasch had performed one of Lisa's
duties, and the master of the house was too deeply engaged in
thought to notice any difference in the handling or to perceive the
smell of snuff that heralded the approach of Papa Barlasch.
Sebastian took his hat and went out closing the door behind him, and
leaving Barlasch, who had followed him to the door, standing rather
stupidly on the mat.
"Absent-minded--the citizen," muttered Barlasch, returning to the
kitchen, where he resumed his seat on a chair by the open door. He
scratched his head and appeared to lapse into thought. But his
brain was slow as were his movements. He had been drinking to the
health of the bride. He thumped himself on the brow with his closed
fist.
"Sacred-name-of-a-thunderstorm," he said. "Where have I seen that
face before?"
Sebastian went out by the Frauenthor to the quay. Although it was
dusk, the granaries were still at work. The river was full of craft
and the roadway choked by rows and rows of carts, all of one
pattern, too big and too heavy for roads that are laid across a
marsh.
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