"It's a pity he has a wife," the other answered. And Dehra frowned.
"They match up well," said a fellow, as we paused a moment at a spring beside a small road house.
I glanced at Dehra; and got a smile in return.
"That they do. He does not look like a foreigner," was the answer.
"He is Dalberg on the outside, anyway," said a third.
"Then, he is Dalberg inside, too—it starts there, with them," said the first.
And so it went, until we reached the Inn of the Twisted Pines.
It was an old log and plaster building; of many gables and small windows; standing back a trifle from the road, with a high-walled yard on all four sides. I had taken the precaution, that morning, to dispatch an orderly to apprise the landlord of our coming; and every human being about the place was drawn up within the enclosure to greet us. Old Boniface met us at the gateway and held my stirrup as I dismounted.
"My poor house has had no such honor," he said, "since the time the Great Henry stopped for breakfast on his return from the Titian War."
"Well, my good man," said I, "you doubtless don't recollect the Great Henry's visit, but, if your supper is what we hope for, I promise you we will honor it as highly as he did that breakfast."