We left the little village behind us and came suddenly upon a branch road leading to the left. I turned down it unhesitatingly. Anything would be better than to stay on the main road where they were looking for us.
“That’s right,” John agreed. “Safer. I may be the family invalid, but we’ve got to get to Herrovosca.”
The road was dirt, but smooth enough to make fairly good time, although there was more traffic than I had expected. Then we came into another town, this one much larger than the last. The houses were higher, and closer together. There was still more traffic, and in a moment as we neared the center of the village, the streets became full of standing vehicles. There was, however, almost no person in sight. Those that were still moving were going in the same direction we were. Even children were conspicuously absent. It was with greater and greater difficulty that I found space for the car to move. At last, in sight of the large square that seems to form the center of all Alarian towns, as it does of all New England towns, we came, perforce, to a stop. Four slow-moving vehicles closed in behind us, with still more coming, effectually blocking that way out. Ahead of us a vast crowd mulled, shouting, gesticulating. We were stopped again. I began to feel that Herrovosca was the ultimate and dearly attainable goal of those who had served a proper term in purgatory.
From somewhere in the distance, standing, apparently, on the fountain in the center of the square, a man was addressing the crowd. A man, as I could see, with a long white beard, and long white hair that reached to his shoulders. He held a staff in his hand, with a crucifix on the top. More vehicles came up behind us, their occupants jumping out, and rushing on to the square. Here, undoubtedly, was news, if we could get someone to interpret it for us, but the first need was for a doctor, since we had to halt, anyway.
John could walk alone, but I helped him out to make sure. We skirted our way around the standing vehicles, and found a crooked alley, empty of people, and at its end, near the square, there was a doctor’s sign. I rang the old-fashioned bell. There was no answer. I rang again, and still again. At last I heard slow feet shuffling a little, and the door was opened grudgingly by an old, deaf woman, who waited for us to speak, scowling, with her hand to her ear. I took refuge in signs, pointing to John’s arm, and repeating the one word, “doctor,” the same in so many languages that I hoped she might understand it. She beckoned us to follow her, and shambled along the passage, grunting as she walked. Presently we heard shouts and the revivalistic sound of the white-beard’s voice, and then we were ushered into a room overlooking the square. There the old woman left us, shutting the door carefully behind her.
While we waited I looked out of the window. We were not half a city block from the fountain and the man on it. It was a remarkable thing to watch, though we did not know what it was all about. He seemed to be having difficulties with his audience. He was answering questions from all sides at once, and dramatically waving his arms. From our vantage point we could see his face plainly when he turned in our direction. He was younger than his white hair suggested, and rather fine looking in a patriarchal fashion reminiscent of moving picture Bible scenes. His eyes were large and dark, his nose aquiline. Words were audible to us, but we could not understand them. At last a man came into the room, and I turned as I heard him close the door behind me. He seemed excited. I spoke to him in German, and hoped that he believed me when I told him that we had been shot at on the highway, probably by robbers, and my friend must have his wound dressed.
“What is the matter with your hands?” he asked John.
“I blistered them fixing our car,” John replied innocently, “and a very charming young lady insisted upon bandaging them up in this absurd way.” He reached for a pair of surgical scissors the doctor had laid out, to take the bandages off, but I stopped him. “You are better off that way,” I said, “let them be, for a while. You don’t want to do anything with your hands, anyway, so what is the difference?”
The doctor gave us a suspicious look, but got to work, though he divided his attention somewhat between John and the scene out of the window. Twice, a woman dashed into the room and shouted something at him, at which he grew still more excited.
“I wish you would tell us what this is all about,” I said, “who is the man on the fountain?”