They crossed a stone bridge and followed the winding road on into a still deeper portion of the forest. The sun went down and darkness gathered.
At last a light glimmered cheerfully in the distance and a dog barked.
“That is Robin ’Oods Tavern,” said the driver.
“Glad of it!” exclaimed the professor. “It’s getting cold since sunset. Not quite as bad as it was in Scotland, but too cold for comfort while driving.”
“Why, I allowed it was some hot up round Lochleven in Scotland,” chuckled Buckhart. “We warmed things up one night. Eh, pard?”
“Rather,” agreed Dick.
Amid the massive oaks stood the little inn, with the light shining cheerfully from its windows. Soon they drew up before it, their journey ended for the night.
Outside the inn, with the horses unhitched and removed, stood the same closed carriage that had passed them on the road.
A hostler came to take charge of their horses, and they entered the inn, being greeted by the landlord, a ruddy-cheeked man, named Swinton, who was smoking a rank-smelling pipe. The landlord welcomed them in a hearty, cheerful manner, bidding them come in by the fire and get warm.
“It’s going to be a cold night, gentlemen,” he said.