The man pointed with his whip in a direction at right angles to the road by which he was himself driving.
"And how far shall we have to walk?"
"To Rotheskirche?"
"Yes—to Rotheskirche."
He grunted doubtfully. "Ugh!" he said, "I can't be certain to a mile or so. It may be twelve or fourteen."
"A good road?"
"Yes—a good road; but hilly. These Herren have only to keep straight forward. They cannot miss the way."
And so he drives off, and leaves us standing in the road. The moon is now rising behind a slope of dark trees—the air is chill—an owl close by utters its tremulous, melancholy cry. Place and hour considered, the prospect of twelve or fourteen miles of a strange road, in a strange country, is anything but exhilarating. We push on, however, briskly; and Bergheim, whose good spirits are invincible, whistles and chatters, and laughs away as gaily as if we were just starting on a brilliant May morning.
"I wonder if you were ever tired in your life!" I exclaim by and by, half peevishly.
"Tired!" he echoes. "Why, I am as tired at this moment as a dog; and would gladly lie down by the roadside, curl myself up under a tree, and sleep till morning. I wonder, by the way, what o'clock it is."