The Prisoner of Zenda — книга для чтения (C1)

“What ails you, Johann?” asked the elder girl. “This is a gentleman on his travels, come to see the coronation.” The man had recovered himself, but he was staring at me with an intense, searching, almost fierce glance. “Good evening to you,” said I.

“Good evening, sir,” he muttered, still scrutinizing me, and the merry girl began to laugh as she called— “See, Johann, it is the colour you love! He started to see your hair, sir. It’s not the colour we see most of here in Zenda.” “I crave your pardon, sir,” stammered the fellow, with puzzled eyes. “I expected to see no one.” “Give him a glass to drink my health in; and I’ll bid you good night, and thanks to you, ladies, for your courtesy and pleasant conversation.”

So speaking, I rose to my feet, and with a slight bow turned to the door. The young girl ran to light me on the way, and the man fell back to let me pass, his eyes still fixed on me. The moment I was by, he started a step forward, asking: “Pray, sir, do you know our King?”