His face, on the Swiss hill-sides,
had been scorched to within a shade of the color nowadays called
magenta, and his bed was a pallet in a loft, which he shared with a
German botanist of colossal stature--every inch of him quaking at an
open window. These had been drawbacks to felicity, but Rowland hardly
cared where or how he was lodged, for he spent the livelong day under
the sky, on the crest of a slope that looked at the Jungfrau. He
remembered all this on leaving Florence with his friends, and he
reflected that, as the midseason was over, accommodations would be more
ample, and charges more modest. He communicated with his old friend the
landlord, and, while September was yet young, his companions established
themselves under his guidance in the grassy valley.
He had crossed the Saint Gothard Pass with them, in the same carriage.
During the journey from Florence, and especially during this portion
of it, the cloud that hung over the little party had been almost
dissipated, and they had looked at each other, in the close contiguity
of the train and the posting-carriage, without either accusing or
consoling glances.
Pages:
542
543
544
545
546
547
548
549
550
551
552
553
554
555
556
557
558
559
560
561
562
563
564
565
566