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 soldiers! They must not find her here. She knew the story only imperfectly, and followed it now with a passionate and deepening interest. And there was no intimation whatever that the blinds would ever go up or the windows or doors be opened, or the chandeliers, that seemed to promise such a blaze of fire, unveiled and furnished and lit. The relationship seemed to have almost as much to do with blood and body as a mortgage. “At a boarding-house?” he gasped. ‘We’ll have you right out of the way, just in case.
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