Leighton and Lewis stood long in silence, then they started down the
road that clung to the steep incline. On the left it was overhung by the
forest; on the right, earth fell suddenly away in a wooded precipice. As
the highway clung to the mountain-side, so did quaint villages cling to
the highway. They came to an old _Gasthaus_, the hinder end of which was
buttressed over the brink of the valley.

Here they stopped. Their big, square room, the only guest-chamber of the
little inn, hung in air high above the jumbled roofs of Dürkheim. To the
right, the valley split to form a niche for a beetling, ruined castle.
Far out on the plain the lights of Darmstadt and Mannheim began to
blink. Beyond and above them Heidelberg signaled faintly from the
opposing hills.

The room shared its aery with a broad, square veranda, trellised and
vine-covered. Here were tables and chairs, and here Leighton and Lewis
dined. Before they had finished their meal, two groups had formed about
separate tables. One was of old men, white-haired, white-bearded, each
with his pipe and a long mug of beer. The other was of women. They, too,
were old, white-haired. Their faces were not hard, like the men's, but
filled with a withered motherliness. The men eyed the two foreigners
distrustfully as though they hung like a cloud over the accustomed peace
of that informal village gathering.

"All old, eh?" said Leighton to Lewis with a nod. "And sour. Want to see
them wake up?"

"Yes," said Lewis.

The woman who served them was young by comparison with the rest.