_
--GEORGE HERBERT.
A little before darkness fell we struck into a narrow road traversing
the wood. This, though apparently not much frequented, would at least
lead me into lands inhabited, so turning my face to the West, that I
might have light to survey as long as any gleamed in the sky, I
trudged on. But I went slow enough: Rosinante was lame; I like a
stranger to my body, it was so bruised and tumbled.
The night was black, and a thin rain falling when at last I emerged
from the interminable maze of lanes into which the wood-road had led
me. And glad I was to descry what seemed by the many lights shining
from its windows to be a populous village. A gay village also, for
song came wafted on the night air, rustic and convivial.
Hereabouts I overtook a figure on foot, who, when I addressed him,
turned on me as sharply as if he supposed the elms above him were
thick with robbers, or that mine was a voice out of the unearthly
hailing him.
I asked him the name of the village we were approaching. With small
dark eyes searching my face in the black shadow of night, he answered
in a voice so strange and guttural that I failed to understand a word.
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