“Ormaiztegua, monsieur,” said the guard.
“What?” said Cartaret. “Say it slow, please, and say it plainly: I am a stranger and of tender years.”
The guard repeated that outlandish name.
“And now which way do we go?” Cartaret inquired.
“North again to Zumarraga.”
“North again?” repeated Cartaret. “Look here: I’m in a hurry. Isn’t there any more direct route to Vitoria?”
“Evidently monsieur does not know the Pyrenees.”
From Zumarraga, the train bent yet again southward, out of Guipuzcoa across the Navarra line.
“Aren’t we late?” asked Cartaret.
“But a little,” the guard reassured him: “scarcely two hours.”