The night was rather dark, and we had not seen the figure of our
postilion, or even heard his voice; but we suspected, by the slowness of
his movements, that he was some old crony of his master. On arriving
towards the end of the relay, he began to blow a bugle with all his
might, surprising us with a number of flourishes. Mr. Koch informed me
that we were going to cross a small river, and that the blast with which
we had been regaled was a warning for the bargeman. Our vehicle then
stopped before the door of an inn, which stood on an elevated spot, and
the postilion, alighting, asked Mr. Koch's permission to enter the inn
to drink a glass of brandy, whilst the bargeman answered his sign. It
was midnight, and we expected soon to cross the river; but after waiting
a quarter of an hour for his return, and seeing that the fellow did not
come out, I alighted, and proceeded towards a window, where a light was
perceivable. As I looked through it, I saw what I certainly did not
expect, but what convinced me that the flourishes of his bugle were
addressed to a very different person from the bargeman. Our postilion
was sitting near a table, with a huge flagon beside him, and a wench on
his knee. Provoked beyond expression at this unseasonable courtship, I
shook the window till it flew open, and, before my companion had time to
alight and witness the scene, both the hero and the heroine came to the
door of the inn, the latter holding a lantern in her hand, by which I
observed she was an ugly kitchen wench of about eighteen, and he a young
man of five-and-twenty. Displeased with my interruption, he muttered
something at my impatience, and at the unseasonableness of my call, and
again blew his bugle, though by no means so vigorously as he had before
done; after which we gained the barge, and continued our way without
farther interruption.--_Van Halen's Narrative._
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