were going uphill; for rising out of the plain there was a sudden low spur of higher ground.
“Is the house at the top?” I asked Gustave.
“Just under the top,” said he.
“I shall walk,” said I.
The fact is, I had grown intolerably impatient of our slow jog, which had now sunk to a walk.
We jumped out and strode on ahead, soon distancing our carriage, and waking echoes with our merry talk.
“I rather wonder they have not come to meet us,” said Gustave. “See, there is the house.”
A sudden turn in the road had brought us in sight of it. It was a rather small modern Gothic château. It nestled comfortably below the hill, which rose very steeply immediately behind it. The road along which we were approaching appeared to afford the only access, and no other house was visible. But, desolate as the spot certainly was, the house itself presented a gay appearance, for there were lights in every window from ground to roof.
“She seems to have company,” I observed.
“It is that she expects us,” answered Gustave. “This illumination is in our honor.”
“Come on,” said I, quickening my pace; and Gustave burst out laughing.
“I knew you would catch fire when once I got you started!” he cried.
Suddenly a voice struck on my ear—a clear, pleasant voice:
“Was he slow to catch fire, my dear Gustave?”
I started. Gustave looked round.
