“At Sersberg?” went on his interlocutor; “you’ll have to go by train, then! It is six good leagues from here to the gate; and considering the weather and the roads, they are equal to twelve.”
The young man uttered an exclamation. He had left the château that morning and did not think that he had wandered so far; but he had been on the wrong path for hours, and in thinking to take the road to Sersberg he had continued to turn his back upon it. It was too late to make good such an error; so he was forced to accept the shelter offered by his new companion, whose farm was fortunately within gunshot.
He accordingly regulated his pace to the carter’s and attempted to enter into conversation with him; but Moser was not a talkative man and was apparently a complete stranger to the young man’s usual sensations. When, on issuing from the forest, Arnold pointed to the magnificent horizon purpled by the last rays of the setting sun, the farmer contented himself with a grimace.
“Bad weather for to-morrow,” he muttered, drawing his cloak about his shoulders.
“One ought to be able to see the entire valley from here,” went on Arnold, striving to pierce the gloom that already clothed the foot of the mountain.
“Yes, yes,” said Moser, shaking his head; “the ridge is high enough for that. There’s an invention for you that isn’t good for much.”
“What invention?”
“The mountains.”
“You would rather have everything level?”
“What a question!” cried the farmer, laughing. “You might as well ask me if I would not rather ruin my horses.”