I looked back to ask the
distance, but they were beyond earshot, and so I went on.
My boots in which I had sworn to walk to Rome were ruinous. Already
since the Weissenstein they had gaped, and now the Brienzer Grat had
made the sole of one of them quite free at the toe. It flapped as I
walked. Very soon I should be walking on my uppers. I limped also, and
I hated the wet cold rain. But I had to go on. Instead of flourishing
my staff and singing, I leant on it painfully and thought of duty, and
death, and dereliction, and every other horrible thing that begins
with a D. I had to go on. If I had gone back there was nothing for
miles.
Before it was dark - indeed one could still read - I saw a group of
houses beyond the Aar, and soon after I saw that my road would pass
them, going over a bridge. When I reached them I went into the first,
saying to myself, 'I will eat, and if I can go no farther I will sleep
here.'
There were in the house two women, one old, the other young; and they
were French-speaking, from the Vaud country. They had faces like
Scotch people, and were very kindly, but odd, being Calvinist.
