Again they pressed on in silence; the snow fell thickly, their hands were numb upon the bridles, and Delia felt her limbs ache with cold.
“We shall not reach Carlisle to-night,” said Jerome suddenly. “You see those lights ahead, Perseus? ’tis an inn—I remember it; a rough place, but we will stop there.”
Though Caryl was the younger, Perseus never questioned his right to command; his cold smiling way carried an authority not easy to dispute. In a few moments more they had drawn up at the inn, a low two-storeyed house; before it a heavy sign outlined now in snow, on it in straggling letters the legend:
“The Borderers.”
A flickering lamp over the door gave a gusty light. As Jerome dismounted he saw a huge coach drawn up against the side of the house.
“Ye have guests?” he demanded of the ostler who came forward.
The man nodded. “A lord and his family.”
Jerome hesitated, but to turn away now would look suspicious, and the night was impossible. He helped Delia down from the saddle and the three entered the low door.
A silent, depressed looking, slatternly woman showed them into a large room that was at once both kitchen and parlor. It was lit only by a huge fire that roared up the vast chimney; the floor was tiled in red, the walls, plaster; heavy red curtains before the windows shut out the night; kitchen utensils, mostly of brown earthenware, hung against the walls and were placed about the hearth; a three-legged cauldron was in the fire and a heavy smell of cooking onions rose from it.
By the low dark table stood a lady, who looked up sharply at the new-comers.