in 



waves of a torrent rushing down to meet the Isar, and 

 look back across broad level lands that stretch away to 

 the feet of distant mountains. Plain to see through the 

 dwindling foliage of the limes that rain and sun have 

 robbed of their summer glory are the broad-eaved 

 gables of houses that cluster round white towers of 

 village churches. 



Far beyond, half way up the mountain side, pausing 

 as if for rest, shows among sheltering trees a straggling 

 white-walled monastery of Benedictine friars. In dark 

 recesses of the glen behind it linger the spirits banished 

 by the founders of the settlement. Still, on wild nights 

 in winter the shuddering peasant, hurrying homeward 

 in the darkness, hears their voices in the pauses of the 

 storm. 



But soon the winding of the path shuts out all sign of 

 human presence. Tall pines, the outposts of the forest, 

 are marshalled by the way, and in their shadow piles of 

 rock, overgrown with wandering clematis, green with 

 fern and grey with lichen, are strewn on either hand. 

 The mountain wall, rising in front like a vast barrier, is 

 drawn in bold outlines on the glowing sky. One more 

 turning brings in sight the little Highland inn. 



The inn is a picture in itself, with its broad eaves and 

 its balconies, its shingle roof weighted with huge stones, 

 the rich brown of its unpainted woodwork, and the forest 

 pines behind it like a splendid setting. No one is 

 visible at door or window, but from within rise sounds 

 of revelry, shouts and the stamp of feet ; and clearly 

 heard above the din, the plaintive twanging of a zither. 



