Raymond crossed over to the opposite side of the road, in order to take a look at the house to which the archway belonged. It was a little old-fashioned inn, squeezed in between two tall houses, like a shabby dwarf between two respectable giants. Over the door hung a sign—a painting of a man with seven heads. They were ugly faces, all of them, each with its peculiar kind of ugliness, and Raymond felt a separate kind of dislike towards each one. Nevertheless (as might have been expected, seeing that there was but one body between them) they bore a sort of family likeness one to another. 'That must be a very wicked body,' Raymond thought; 'it must be capable of committing all the seven deadly sins at once.' It was thick and shapeless, with short crooked legs, and very long arms. Underneath was written, 'The Seven Brethren.'
As he stood in the shadow on the opposite side of the street, with his cap under his arm, Raymond felt half-minded not to enter the inn which hung out so uninviting a sign. How different were these faces from those of Armand, Dorimund, Sigismund, and the rest of the rosy young farmers who drank milk at the Brindled Cow! Should he go back there even now? There he would be sure of a welcome: he was not sure of a welcome here. Raymond hesitated. But before he could make up his mind the barmaid of the Seven Brethren appeared at the door of the inn. She soon espied him where he stood, and smiled and beckoned to him.
'Come over, come over, my lad,' she said; 'it's just upon supper-time, and there's a chop on the gridiron, and a draught of brown ale I'll draw for you. Come; you look right hungry.'
Her voice and look made Raymond's heart beat, for, in a certain way, they were like Rosamund's. And yet they were unlike. She had eyes like Rosamund's, but the expression in them was one which Rosamund never wore. Her manner of speaking, too, resembled Rosamund's. Yet Rosamund had never spoken in quite that tone. Raymond hardly knew whether to be pleased or shocked. After a little hesitation he put on his cap and came across the street to her.
'Oh! my Lord, I'm sure I crave your pardon!' exclaimed the girl, dropping him a curtsey. But though her words were humble Raymond fancied he saw a mischievous sparkle in her eye which made him suspect that she might be making fun of him. 'I didn't recognise your Lordship in the shadow over there,' she continued, in a still softer voice. 'They have been expecting your Lordship.'
Now that Raymond was close to the girl she seemed much prettier than before. 'What is your name?' he asked her.
'Silvia, please your Lordship.'
'Silvia—not Rosamund?'
'Oh, no, please your Lordship. Rosamund is such a vulgar name.'
'You are very pretty, Silvia.'