The rain came faster and they hurried forward now and presently stood at the door of a habitation, though even in the mist and gloom it impressed them as being of a curious sort. There was a window and a light, certainly, but the window held no sash, and the single opening was covered with a sort of skin, or parchment. There was a door, too, and walls, but beyond this the structure seemed as a part of the forest itself, with growing trees forming the door and corner posts, while others rose apparently from the roof. Further outlines of this unusual structure were lost in the dimness. Under the low, sheltering eaves they hesitated.
"Shall we knock?" whispered Constance. "It is all so queer—so uncanny. I feel as if it might be the home of a real witch or magician, or something like that."
"Then we may at least learn our fate," Frank answered, and with his knuckles struck three raps on the heavy door.
At first there was silence, then a sound of movement within, followed by a shuffling step. A moment later the heavy door swung ajar, and in the dim light from within Frank and Constance beheld a tall bowed figure standing in the opening. In a single brief glance they saw that it was a man—also that his appearance, like that of his house, was unusual. He was dressed entirely in skins. His beard was upon his breast, and his straggling hair fell about his shoulders. He stood wordless, silently regarding the strangers, and Frank at first was at a loss for utterance. Then he said, hesitatingly:
"We missed our way on the mountain. We want shelter from the storm and directions to the trail that leads to Spruce Lodge."
Still the tall bent figure in the doorway made no movement and uttered no word. They could not see his face, but Constance felt that his eyes were fixed upon her, and she clung closer to Frank's arm. Yet when the strange householder spoke at last there was nothing to cause fear, either in his words or tone. His voice was gentle—not much above a whisper.
"I crave your pardon if I seem slow of hospitality," he said, quaintly, "but a visitor seldom comes to my door. Only one other has ever found his way here, and he comes not often." He pushed the rude door wider on its creaking withe hinges. "I bid you welcome," he added, then, as Constance came more fully into the light shed by a burning pine knot and an open fire, he stopped, stared at her still more fixedly and muttered something under his breath. But a moment later he said gently, his voice barely more than a whisper: "I pray you will pardon my staring, but in that light just now you recalled some one—a woman it was—I used to know. Besides, I have not been face to face with any woman for nearly a score of years."