“It’s not where I’m from but where I’m going that concerns me.”
“All right. I know the lady’s horse;” and on he drove without any more.
“Everybody seems to know everybody else’s horse about here,” I said. “If it weren’t awkward it would be comical. We’ll ride on and try the next man.”
The next was another farmer. A surly Russian who understood Polish with difficulty and spoke it unintelligibly. So I thanked him and rode on no wiser.
Three or four miles later brought us to a village.
“Had we not better get some food here?” asked Volna. “I will go and buy it, and perhaps can find out at the same time what road we ought to take.” So we dismounted, and I waited with the horses.
Presently a priest came by, and bade me good-day with a smile.
“You have a picturesque place here, Father,” I said. “What is it called?”
“Kervatje,” he answered, and we began to talk. I learnt that his name was Father Ambrose, and after some while he asked, “You are a foreigner?”
“An Englishman. My sister is with me. We were going to Solden, but I fear have lost the way.”