‘Follow the path,’ I said, when Temple wanted to have a consultation.

‘So we did in the London fog!’ said he, with some gloom.

But my retort:  ‘Hasn’t it brought us here?’ was a silencer.

Dark night came on.  Every height stood for a ruin in our eyes, every dip an abyss.  It grew bewilderingly dark, but the path did not forsake us, and we expected, at half-hour intervals, to perceive the lights of Sarkeld, soon to be thundering at one of the inns for admission and supper.  I could hear Temple rehearsing his German vocabulary, ’Brod, butter, wasser, fleisch, bett,’ as we stumbled along.  Then it fell to ‘Brod, wasser, bett,’ and then, ‘Bett’ by itself, his confession of fatigue.  Our path had frequently the nature of a waterway, and was very fatiguing, more agreeable to mount than descend, for in mounting the knees and shins bore the brunt of it, and these sufferers are not such important servants of the footfarer as toes and ankles in danger of tripping and being turned.

I was walking on leveller ground, my head bent and eyes half-shut, when a flash of light in a brook at my feet caused me to look aloft.  The tower we had marked after sunset was close above us, shining in a light of torches.  We adopted the sensible explanation of this mysterious sight, but were rather in the grip of the superstitious absurd one, until we discerned a number of reddened men.

‘Robbers!’ exclaimed one of us.  Our common thought was, ’No; robbers would never meet on a height in that manner’; and we were emboldened to mount and request their help.

Fronting the tower, which was of white marble, a high tent had been pitched on a green platform semicircled by pines.  Torches were stuck in clefts of the trees, or in the fork of the branches, or held by boys and men, and there were clearly men at work beneath the tent at a busy rate.  We could hear the paviour’s breath escape from them.  Outside the ring of torchbearers and others was a long cart with a dozen horses harnessed to it.  All the men appeared occupied too much for chatter and laughter.  What could be underneath the tent?  Seeing a boy occasionally lift one of the flapping corners, we took licence from his example to appease our curiosity.  It was the statue of a bronze horse rearing spiritedly.  The workmen were engaged fixing its pedestal in the earth.

Our curiosity being satisfied, we held debate upon our immediate prospects.  The difficulty of making sure of a bed when you are once detached from your home, was the philosophical reflection we arrived at, for nothing practical presented itself.  To arm ourselves we pulled out Miss Goodwin’s paper.  ‘Gasthof is the word!’ cried Temple.  ’Gasthof, zimmer, bett; that means inn, hot supper, and bed.  We’ll ask.’  We asked several of the men.  Those in motion shot a stare at us; the torchbearers pointed at the tent and at an unseen height, muttering ‘Morgen.’  Referring to Miss Goodwin’s paper we discovered