Stories By English Authors: France (Selected by Scribners)
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Stories By English Authors: France (Selected by Scribners)
France -- Fiction; Short stories, English
While he wondered at my ignorance, I was pleased to discover his, and
so far I had lost my pains. But it did not escape me that the three
gamesters had ceased to play and were listening intently to our
conversation. Moreover, as I moved to the door, they followed me with
their eyes; and when I turned, after riding a hundred yards, I found
that they had come to the door and were still gazing after us.
This prevented me at once remarking that a hound which had which had
been lying before the fire had accompanied us, and was now running in
front, now gambolling round us, as the manner of dogs is. When, however,
after riding about two thirds of a league, we came to a place where
the roads forked, I had occasion particularly to notice the hound, for,
choosing one of the paths, it stood in the mouth of it, wagging its
tail, and inviting us to take that road; and this so pertinaciously
that, though the directions we had received at the inn would have led
us to prefer the other, we determined to follow the dog as the more
trustworthy guide.
We had proceeded about four hundred paces when La Trape pointed out that
the path was growing more narrow and showed few signs of being used. So
certain did it seem--though the dog still ran confidently ahead--that
we were again astray, that I was about to draw rein and return, when I
discovered with some emotion that the undergrowth on the right of the
path had assumed the character of a thick hedge of box. Though less
prone than most men to put faith in omens, I accepted this as one,
and, notwithstanding that it wanted but an hour of sunset, I rode on
steadily, remarking that, with each turn in the woodland path, the scrub
on my left also gave place to the sturdy tree which had been in my
mind all day. Finally we found ourselves passing through an alley of
box,--which, no long time before, had been clipped and dressed,--until a
final turn brought me into a cul-de-sac, a kind of arbor, carpeted
with grass, and so thickly set about as to afford no exit save by the
entrance. Here the dog placidly stood and wagged its tail, looking up at
us.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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