"I remember. But not even the Great Reformer's poetry is to be taken too literally. We'll discuss the point later on. Now some trout, then a pipe and a gossip."
When the host departed to attend to the order, Mark unstrapped his knapsack and looked about him.
He had come thousands of miles to see this garden! He admitted the foolish fact to himself, though even to his mother he would have denied it. The fat host was right; he had drunk many a flask of wine in this place, roared in many a chorus, had danced many a waltz with village maidens on yonder platform; but of these various scenes of his student days he had not thought until his host recalled them. They were memories, even memories with some of that tender sadness which renders such memories pleasant, but such as they would never have drawn him here.
And now that he was here, so sharp a pain was in his heart that he recognized his folly. The wound was yet too new. He should have waited a decade or more. Then he might have found solace in recalling her to his mind, here where first he had seen her; he, in all the arrogant pride of youth; she, with all the fresh beauty of a school girl. Now no effort was needed to recall her to his memory—she was ever present.
Nevertheless, he enjoyed his fish and his wine. "A superlative vintage," said the host, who had had time to recall his guest more distinctly, and who remembered that in past days Studiosus Clokhorn had dispensed money with a liberal hand.
"And so the inn has been enlarged," said Mark, looking about him. "That means prosperity."
"Forellenbach is becoming a resort," replied the host. "We have parties that remain for days. We have strangers here at this moment."
"Ah!" was the sleepy comment.
"Yes; three ladies. Or rather, two ladies and a maid. Mother and daughter—English."
"Ah!" said Mark again.