“Yes,” John said, slowly, “that was the name.”
“The ghost of Fakat Zol,” the man went on, slowly, “of course ’e is not a ghost, but it is true ’e maintains almost an army in the mountains. That is why the Rheatians ’ate him. ’is band ’as defeated them several times when they were bent on aggression. That is ’istory. No one goes through the Pass unless Fakat Zol permits. It ’as always been so. That is, it ’as been so for eight hundred years, which is long enough. He rules by superstition, tradition and right. Our ’istory is full of incidents of ’is appearance. ’e is like your English Robin ’ood, but become immortal.”
“We are Americans,” John corrected.
“The same thing.” He shrugged his shoulders. “You come from Rheatia?”
“We came through Rheatia.”
“You ’ave business in Alaria?”
We went through the old story of the writer and the artist. I was so tired of it I wished that it might be safe to change our professions for a little variety.
“At present,” the younger man said slowly, “Alaria is not a ’ealthy place for strangers.”
“No?” I was all innocence, or tried to be. “Is there some trouble?”
“There seems to be a slight uneasiness since the King’s death. You cannot tell what it may lead to. For the present I think we are all very tired. Let us continue our discussion in the morning.”