"Can I have a room looking on to the valley?" asked the latter.
"Not at this moment," the landlord answered, clearing his throat
loudly; "there is hardly a room free here, and that only in the top
story. But to-morrow, or the day after, many people are leaving, and
then I can give you what you want."
Wilhelm's face clouded with disappointment, but only for a moment,
then he said: "Very well, I will stay."
"Luggage?" said the landlord, in his short, unceremonious way. "My
luggage is at Haslach. It can come up to-morrow."
"Bertha," called the landlord, in such a strident tone that the
mountains echoed the sound. The visitors drinking in the kiosk
smiled; they were well accustomed to the man. A neat red-cheeked
girl appeared in the doorway. "Number 47," shouted the landlord, and
went off to his other duties.
Bertha led the new guest up three flights of uncarpeted wooden
staircase, down a long passage to a light, clean, but sparely-
furnished room. The girl told him the hours of meals, brought some
water, and left him alone. He hung his knapsack on a hook on the
wall, opened the little window, and gazed long at the view.
Underneath was the open space where he had been standing, to the
left the tower, and behind, over the ruined walls, he could see the
old, neglected castle yard full of weeds and heaps of rubbish--a
picture of decay and desolation.
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