RODERICK HUDSON
sharp discord. Hard by is a group of châlets and inns, with the usual appurtenances of a prosperous Swiss resort — lean brown guides in baggy homespun loafing under carved wooden galleries, stacks of alpen stocks in every doorway, sun-scorched Englishmen without shirt-collars. The companions sat a while at the door of an inn and discussed a pint of wine, and then Roderick, whose light, elegant legs never gave way, whatever else in him did, announced his intention of climbing to a certain rocky pinnacle which overhung the valley and, according to the testimony of one of the guides, commanded a view of the Lake of Lucerne. To go and come back was only a matter of an hour, but Rowland, with the prospect of his homeward march before him, confessed to a preference for lounging on his bench or, at most, strolling a trifle further and paying a visit to the monastery. Roderick went off alone, and the elder man took after a little the direction of the monasterial church. It was remarkable, like most of the churches of Catholic Switzerland, for a coarse floridity, but one was free to view this, if one would, as brave romantic character. Rowland lingered a quarter of an hour under the influence of that suggestion. While he was near the high altar another visitor or two appeared to have come in at the west door, but he gave no heed and was presently engaged in deciphering a curious old German epitaph on one of the mural tablets. At last he turned away, wondering if its syntax or its theology were the more uncomfortable, and, to his infinite surprise, found himself confronted with Prince and Princess Casamassima.
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