“Hvor er Stölen (where is the châlet)?”
“It ought to be near.”
“Ought to be! what do you mean? Haven’t you been this road before?”
“No. But the stöl is near the second great lake, and the second lake can’t be far. We’ve passed the first.”
After this agreeable revelation I was wound up into a towering state of ire, which made it prudent not to say more.
Picking my way with difficulty through brooks, and holes, and rocks, on I stumped. Twilight at last became no-light, as we emerged on the side of what seemed to be a lake. Here the châlet ought to be. But whether or no, it was too dark to see. Halting, the guide exclaimed—
“What are we to do?”
“Do? why sleep under a rock, to be sure. Take the load off the horse, and turn him loose. But stop. Is not that the stöl?” exclaimed I, advancing to a dark object, a few yards from us, when I plunged up to my knees in a peat-hag, from which I with difficulty extricated myself. Hitherto my feet had been dry, but they were so no longer.
“Hold your tongue!” I thundered out to the guide, who kept chattering most vociferously, and assuring me that the stöl ought to be here.