’Very sorry, my lord.  The horses must have taken a wrong turn after we crossed the bridge.  And now the men say they can’t go back to Fellside unless we can get fresh horses; and I’m afraid there’s no chance of that here.’

‘Here!’ exclaimed the Earl, ’what do you mean by here?  Where the devil are we?’

‘Great Langdale, my lord.’

A door opened and let out a flood of light—­the red light of a wood fire, the pale flame of a candle—­upon the snowy darkness, revealing the panelled hall of a neat little rustic inn:  an eight-day clock ticking in the corner, a black and white sheep-dog coming out at his master’s heels to investigate the travellers.  To the right of the door showed the light of a window, sheltered by a red curtain, behind which the chiefs of the village were enjoying their evening.

‘Have you any post-horses?’ asked the Earl, discontentedly, as the landlord stood on the threshold, shading the candle with his hand.  ’No, sir.  We don’t keep post-horses.’

‘Of course not.  I knew as much before I asked,’ said the Earl.

’We are fixed in this dismal hole for the night, I suppose.  How far are we from Fellside?’

‘Seven miles,’ answered the landlord.  ’I beg your pardon, my lord; I didn’t know it was your lordship,’ he added, hurriedly.  ’We’re in sore trouble, and it makes a man daft-like; but if there’s anything we can do——­’

‘Is there no hope of getting on, Steadman?’ asked the Earl, cutting short these civilities.

‘Not with these horses, my lord.’

’And you hear we can’t get any others.  Is there any farmer about here who could lend us a pair of carriage horses?’

The landlord knew of no such person.

’Then we must stop here till to-morrow morning.  What infernal fools those post-boys must be,’ protested Lord Maulevrier.

James Steadman apologised for the postilions, explaining that when they came to the critical point of their journey, where the road branched off to the Langdales, the snow was falling so thickly, the whole country was so hidden in all-pervading whiteness, that even he, who knew the way so well, could give no help to the drivers.  He could only trust to the instinct of local postilions and local horses; and instinct had proved wrong.

The travellers alighted, and were ushered into a not uncomfortable-looking parlour; very low as to the ceiling, very old-fashioned as to the furniture, but spotlessly clean, and enlivened by a good fire, to which his lordship drew near, shivering and muttering discontentedly to himself.

‘We might be worse off,’ said her ladyship, looking round the bright little room, which pleased her better than many a state apartment in the large hotels at which they had stopped.

‘Hardly, unless we were out on the moor,’ grumbled her husband.  ’I am sick to death of this ill-advised, unreasonable journey.  I am at a loss to imagine your motive in bringing me here.  You must have had a motive.’