“It must be,” she replied. “Go to the door, and knock upon it loudly.”
“But the horses—who will mind them, donzella?”
Instantly she scrambled through the trap to the seat beside me and took the reins in her small hands.
“I will look after the horses,” said she.
So I climbed down and approached the door. It was sheltered by a rude porch, and flanked upon either side by well-worn benches such as are frequent at wayside inns.
I pounded upon the door and then paused to listen. The sounds drew a hollow reverberation from within, but aroused no other reply.
“Knock again!” called Lesba.
I obeyed, but with no better success. The place seemed uncanny, and I returned abruptly to the carriage, standing beside the wheel and gazing up through the moonlight into the beautiful face the girl bent over me.
“Lesba,” said I, pleadingly, “what does all this mean? Why have you brought me to this strange place?”
“To save your life,” she answered in a grave voice.