The voice of the young seaman came floating down from the masthead, and the story of the immortal lovers had begun. The man muttered something inaudible, and gathered up the reins. If he adhered to this policy—to keep away from her inconspicuously—she would forget the name by night, and to-morrow even the bearer of it would sink below the level of recollection. A little inn flying a Swiss flag nestles under a great rock, and there they put aside their knapsacks and lunched and rested in the mid-day shadow of the gorge and the scent of resin. The lamp was not yet lit, and in the dim light he bent forward as though trying to look into her averted face. But it was only six-thirty.
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