The travellers continued their journey, without stopping to hear mass.  In the course of the forenoon they came suddenly in sight of the beautiful Lake of Saint Wolfgang, lying deep beneath them in the valley.  On its shore, under them, sat the white village of Saint Gilgen, like a swan upon its reedy nest.  They seemed to have taken it unawares, and as it were clapped their hands upon it in its sleep, and almost expected to see it spread its broad, snow-white wings, and fly away.  The whole scene was one of surpassing beauty.

They drove leisurely down the steep hill, and stopped at the village inn.  Before the door was a magnificent, broad-armed tree, with benches and tables beneath its shadow.  On the front of the house was written in large letters, “Post-Tavern by Franz Schoendorfer”; and over this was a large sun-dial, and a half-effaced painting of a bear-hunt, covering the whole side of the house, and mostly red.  Just as they drove up, a procession of priests with banners, and peasants with their hats in their hands, passed by towards the church.  They were singing a solemn psalm.  At the same moment, a smart servant girl, with a black straw hat, set coquettishly on her flaxen hair, and a large silver spoon stuck in her girdle, came out of the tavern, and asked Flemming what he would please to order for breakfast.

Breakfast was soon ready, and was served up at the head of the stairs, on an old-fashioned oaken table in the great hall, into which the chambers opened.  Berkley ordered at the same time a tub of cold water, in which he seated himself, with his coat on, and a bed-quilt thrown round his knees.  Thus he sat for an hour; ate his breakfast, and smoked a pipe, and laughed a good deal.  He then went to bed and slept till dinner time.  Meanwhile Flemming sat in his chamber and read.  It was a large room in the front of the house, looking upon the village and the lake.  The windows were latticed, with small panes, and the window-sills filled with fragrant flowers.

At length the heat of the noon was over.  Day, like a weary pilgrim, had reached the westerngate of Heaven, and Evening stooped down to unloose the latchets of his sandal-shoon.  Flemming and Berkley sallied forth to ramble by the borders of the lake.  Down the cool, green glades and alleys, beneath the illuminated leaves of the forest, over the rising grounds, in the glimmering fretwork of sunshine and leaf-shadow,—­an exhilarating walk!  The cool evening air by the lake was like a bath.  They drank the freshness of the hour in thirsty draughts, and their breasts heaved rejoicing and revived, after the feverish, long confinement of the sultry summer day.  And there, too, lay the lake, so beautiful and still!  Did it not recall, think ye, the lake of Thun?

On their return homeward they passed near the village churchyard.

“Let us go in and see how the dead rest,” said Flemming, as they passed beneath the belfry of the church; and they went in, and lingered among the tombs and the evening shadows.