They were the drivers of the wagons that had been recently expedited.

The oldest of their party related that, when just beyond the frontier, they had been induced to make a hasty retreat by the alarming spectacle of a body of armed peasants.

In turning round, the wheel of the last wagon had come off; the driver, in his fright, had unharnessed the horses and left the wagon.

While the delinquent stood there, flourishing his hat in the air, and excusing himself as well as he could, the officer in command came up and confirmed the story.
"You may see the wagon on the road, about a hundred yards beyond the bridge," he went on to say; and when the merchant begged leave to cross the bridge, he offered to send one of his officers with him.
A young officer belonging to a squadron just returned from a patrol was curbing his fiery steed at the door of the tavern.
"Lieutenant von Rothsattel," called the captain, "accompany the gentlemen beyond the bridge." It was with rapture that Anton heard a name linked with so many sweet recollections.

He knew at once that the rider of the fiery charger could be no other than the brother of his lady of the lake.
The lieutenant, tall and slender, with a delicate mustache, was as like his sister as a young cavalry officer could be to the fairest of all mortal maidens.