His interest was divided: while his ears drank in the sounds, his glance constantly roved from Ruth to the performer and back to Ruth. But for the next few days he avoided Cheveney like the plague. 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. "I understand," she said. They were hailed as celebrities, the three of them. "I'll place it to your account, Sir Rowland," answered the thief-taker, smiling significantly. Then they rode off at speed. Stay me with flagons, comfort me with apples, for I am sick of love. Sheppard. Or run me through. They embarked upon an open and declared friendship.
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