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'Very sorry, my lord. The horses must have taken a wrong turn after we
crossed the bridge. And now the men say they can't go back to Fellside
unless we can get fresh horses; and I'm afraid there's no chance of that
here.'
'Here!' exclaimed the Earl, 'what do you mean by here? Where the devil
are we?'
'Great Langdale, my lord.'
A door opened and let out a flood of light--the red light of a wood
fire, the pale flame of a candle--upon the snowy darkness, revealing the
panelled hall of a neat little rustic inn: an eight-day clock ticking in
the corner, a black and white sheep-dog coming out at his master's heels
to investigate the travellers. To the right of the door showed the light
of a window, sheltered by a red curtain, behind which the chiefs of the
village were enjoying their evening.
'Have you any post-horses?' asked the Earl, discontentedly, as the
landlord stood on the threshold, shading the candle with his hand. 'No,
sir. We don't keep post-horses.'
'Of course not. I knew as much before I asked,' said the Earl.


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