However, like two civilised men, though we both really wanted to go back, we did not want to enough to turn the car around, or perhaps we were ashamed to admit it to each other. In any case we continued on our way toward the frontier and Helena. I took out my desire for excitement in driving faster.
The customs house on the Alarian side of the frontier was a small stone and stucco building at the bottom of a steep incline. Straight ahead the road rose toward the Pass. It was lonely at the foot of the mountains, and the shadows were deep enough to breed superstition. No wonder the people could believe that queer old legend of the Black Ghost, so famous as to be mentioned even by Baedeker. The shadowy rocky masses ahead of us provided a perfect setting for any ghost, particularly a black one.
“There’s something about this fool country,” John said, “that I like. I suppose it would be ghastly dull to live here, but I’d almost be willing to have a whack at it. Consider that as a permanent home, for instance, and compare it with a neat suburban house in Brookline.”
On our right was a high hill, about a mile or so away, but the air was clear enough so that we could see it distinctly. On the rocky top of the hill a long white manor house stood as though it had grown there. Probably once it had been fortified to resist an army. No doubt it had been called upon to do so not long ago. I could imagine its owners swooping down on travellers through the Pass and exacting tolls with a heavy hand. Perhaps, I thought, they might have been responsible for the legend of the Black Ghost, though it looked like a pretty solid home for a phantom.
We drew up, perforce, before the customs house. Alaria had taken no chances when she built it there. The road narrowed to make its way between two sharp high walls of rock, which had been supplemented by masonry and a gateway with tightly closed, wrought iron gates. I produced my passport, and John not only offered his for examination, but a bill of sale for the car, a round dozen French cards of varying sizes and colors permitting him to drive and to circulate and what not in the streets of Paris. “They’re so impressive-looking,” he explained to me, with his un-Bostonian grin.
A common soldier took them and gave them to a sergeant. The sergeant looked wise, turned them all over to examine the reverse sides, and held them to the light to look for a watermark. No doubt that would be quite as illuminating to an Alarian as Paris driving permits. At last he shook his head dubiously, and took the whole lot inside the building.
After a moment or two he returned and beckoned to us.
“It’s their damned revolution following us up,” John said, “and it would have been a lot more fun to be detained in Herrovosca than it will here.”
“You never can tell,” I said, “we may find doom, or romance, or any number of amusing things ahead.”