"Who goes there?" he said, holding the lanthorn high above his head, and shading his eyes with his hand.
"Travellers," replied my companion. "Travellers wanting food and shelter for the night."
The man looked at us for a moment in silence.
"You travel late," he said, at length.
"Ay—and we must have gone on still later, if we had not come upon your house. We were bound for Rotheskirche. Can you take us in."
"Yes," he said sullenly. "I suppose so. This way."
And, swinging the lanthorn as he went, he turned on his heel abruptly, and led the way back to the house.
"A boorish fellow enough!" said I, as we followed.
"Nay—a mere peasant!" replied Bergheim. "A mere peasant—rough, but kindly."
As we drew near the house, two large mastiff pups came rushing out from a yard somewhere at the back, and a huge, tawny dog chained up in an open shed close by, strained at his collar and yelled savagely.