rather than of
a student. Madame Patoff leaned back in the carriage, and fairly enjoyed
the hours; saying to herself that Cutter had never been so agreeable
before, and that indeed in her long life she had met few men who
possessed so much charm in conversation. She was an old lady, and could
judge of men, for she had spent nearly forty years in the midst of the
most brilliant society in Europe, and was not to be deceived by the ring
of false metal.

At last they reached the place in the road where they had to descend
from the carriage and mount the ascent to Weissenstein. Madame Patoff
was well pleased with the place, and said so as she slowly climbed the
narrow path, leaning on the professor's arm. The inn--the old Gasthaus
zum Goldenen Anker--stands upon the very edge of the precipice above the
tumbling Nagold, and is indeed partly built down the face of the cliff.
Rooms have been hollowed, so that their windows look down on the river
from a sheer height of two hundred feet, the surface of the natural
wall, broken only here and there by a projecting ledge, or by the
crooked stem of a strong wild cherry tree which somehow finds enough
soil and moisture there to support its hardy growth. The inn is very
primitive, but comfortable in its simple way, and the scenery is
surpassingly beautiful. Far below, on the other side of the torrent, the
small village nestles among the dark pines, the single spire of the
diminutive church standing high above the surrounding cottages. Above,
the hill is crowned by the ruins of the ancient castle of
Weissenstein,--the castle of Bellrem, the crusader, who fell from the
lofty ramparts on a moonlight night in the twelfth century, terrified by
the ghost of a woman he had loved and wronged. At least, the legend says
so, and as the ruined ramparts are still there it is probably all quite
true. On the back of the hill, where the narrow path descends from the
inn to the road, the still, deep waters of the great mill pool lie
stagnant in the hot air, and the long-legged water spiders shoot over
the surface, inviting the old carp to snap at them, well knowing that
they will not, but skimming away like mad when a mountain trout, who has
strayed in from the river through the sluices, comes suddenly to the
surface with a short, sharp splash. But there are flies for the trout,
and he prefers them, so that the water spiders lead, on the whole, a
quiet and unmolested life.

The travelers entered the