THE THIRTY-NINE STEPS
wound up the narrow vale of a lowland stream. As I followed it, fields gave place to bent, the glen became a plateau, and presently I had reached a kind of pass, where a solitary house smoked in the twilight. The road swung over a bridge and leaning on the parapet was a man.
He was smoking a long clay pipe and studying the water with spectacled eyes. In his left hand was a small book with a finger marking the place. Slowly he repeated—
"As when a Gryphon through the wilderness,
With winged step, o'er hill and moory dale
Pursues the Arimaspian."
He jumped round as my step rung on keystone, and I saw a pleasant, sunburnt, boyish face.
"Good evening to you," he said gravely. "It's a fine night for the road."
The smell of wood smoke and of some savoury roast floated to me from the house. "Is that place an inn?" I asked.
"At your service," he said politely. "I am the landlord, sir, and I hope you will stay the
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