Dylar and Elena talked with their guides in a language that she had never heard before, yet which she could almost understand.
It was a clear-sounding and sonorous language, with a good deal of accent, and it almost sang.
“You will soon learn it,” Elena said. “It is the flower of all languages, not yet rich, but pure.”
They mounted, and pursued their way. After some hours the path began to broaden and descend. They entered a pine wood, and the sun deserted them, showing only on the tops of the highest trees. The way was dim and fragrant, long brown aisles of gloom stretched away at their left. But only a fringe of trees stood between them and the crags at their right.
The path turned with a long curve, and they were at the door of a dark old house, built of rough stones, and set against a cliff. Opposite the door a road went down into the pines, and disappeared. The road by which they had come continued past the door, descended gently, and disappeared around the cliffs.
The house had a sinister, deserted look. The door was off the hinges, and set against an inner wall. The rude shutters of an upper window hung half open. Where the masonry of the house ended and the natural rock began was not apparent. Nature had adopted the rough stones, and set her lichens and grasses in their interstices.
A rivulet fell from the heights into a trough near the door, twisting itself as it fell, and braiding in strands of light. From the trough the water overflowed, and followed the road.
“It is not so bad as it looks,” Elena said.
Dylar came to assist Tacita. “I think that you will be able to rest well here, unpromising as it looks,” he said. “Do not be anxious. You will be well guarded. And to-morrow your journey will come to an end.”
As they entered the house, a man came hastening down the stairs. He saluted Dylar with reverence and Elena with delight. They spoke together in the language the guides had used. The man bowed lowly before Tacita, and smiled a welcome.