“Who is there?”
“A traveller. I’ve lost my way. Please let me in.”
A heavy bolt was drawn, and the door opened cautiously. A tall old man holding a lamp over his head, stood in the doorway. His face was in the shadow, but Hugh could see that it was round and jovial. The man looked at him for a long moment, then said:
“Ah! my poor monsieur, you are indeed in a plight. Excuse me that I did not open sooner. But there are bandits about, and one has to be careful.”
He led Hugh into a bare room in which there was a long table and some rough benches. It was like the public room of some country auberge, hard, primitive, nakedly clean, but its cheerlessness was vanquished by a huge fire that blazed in the great open fireplace. The old man set the lamp on the table.
“Welcome, monsieur. My name is Pascal Martini. I keep a place of public entertainment; you have fallen well.”
“And I am a tourist,” said Hugh. “I was going to Agaccio in a car, but got stuck in the snow near the summit, and followed a trail that led me here.”
“It is good,” said Martini. “If you had followed the road you would have gotten waist deep in snow. It has lasted now for three days, the storm. And to think that down near the coast they have oranges and peach trees in blossom. It is wonderful, our Corsica. We have three climates in so small a space. I regret that we are giving you at this moment a taste of its most unpleasant one. You are wet through. If you will condescend to wear some of my poor garments I will give you a complete change.”
Hugh expressed his gratitude, and, standing in the glow of the blazing logs, stripped and rubbed himself with a rough towel. He felt the glow return to his frozen limbs. He put on the woollen shirt, stockings, and the corduroy breeches Martini handed to him.
“The costume of a hunter,” said the inn-keeper. “It is chiefly hunters and fishermen who come here. Sometimes wood-cutters. Occasionally bandits.”