“Why, there’s a village up here!” said Rosamund, as they came to a small collection of houses with yards and rough gardens and scattered outbuildings.
“Yes—Drouva. Our inn is just beyond it, but quite separated from it.”
“I’m glad of that. They don’t bother very much about cleanliness here, I should think.”
He was smiling at her now. His lips were twitching under his mustache, and his eyes seemed trying not to tell something to her.
“Surely the secret isn’t up here?”
He shook his head, still smiling, almost laughing.
They were now beyond the village, and emerged on a plateau of rough short grass which seemed to dominate the world.
“This is the top of the hill of Drouva,” said Dion, with a ring of joy, and almost of pride, in his voice. “And there’s our inn, the Inn of Drouva.”
Rosamund pulled up her horse. She did not say a word. She just looked, while her horse lowered his head and sniffed the air in through his twitching nostrils. Then he sent forth a quivering neigh, his welcome to the Inn of Drouva. The view was immense, but Rosamund was not looking at it. A small dark object not far off in the foreground of this great picture held her eyes. For the moment she saw little or nothing else.
She saw a dark, peaked tent pitched in the middle of the plateau. Smoke from a fire curled up behind it. Two or three figures moved near it. Beyond, Nicholas was unloading the mules.