'Great Langdale, my lord.'
A door opened and let out a flood of light—the red light of a wood fire, the pale flame of a candle—upon the snowy darkness, revealing the panelled hall of a neat little rustic inn: an eight-day clock ticking in the corner, a black and white sheep-dog coming out at his master's heels to investigate the travellers. To the right of the door showed the light of a window, sheltered by a red curtain, behind which the chiefs of the village were enjoying their evening.
'Have you any post-horses?' asked the Earl, discontentedly, as the landlord stood on the threshold, shading the candle with his hand. 'No, sir. We don't keep post-horses.'
'Of course not. I knew as much before I asked,' said the Earl.
'We are fixed in this dismal hole for the night, I suppose. How far are we from Fellside?'
'Seven miles,' answered the landlord. 'I beg your pardon, my lord; I didn't know it was your lordship,' he added, hurriedly. 'We're in sore trouble, and it makes a man daft-like; but if there's anything we can do----'
'Is there no hope of getting on, Steadman?' asked the Earl, cutting short these civilities.
'Not with these horses, my lord.'
'And you hear we can't get any others. Is there any farmer about here who could lend us a pair of carriage horses?'
The landlord knew of no such person.