Full resolution (TIFF) - On this page / på denna sida - The Zather Dale.
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They ran up and they ran down; there was a
hissing sound of roasting by the hearth; the
girls chattered, the men drank “sup,”[1]
strangers came, were shown into their rooms,
and got both roast and boiled. Several hours
had passed, when I made a forcible appeal to
the girl, and she answered phlegmatically:
“Why, Sir, you sit there and write without
stopping, so you cannot have time to eat.”
It was a long evening, “but the evening
passed!” It had become quite still in the inn;
all the travellers, except myself, had again
departed, certainly in order to find better
quarters for the night at Hedemore or Brunbeck.
I had seen, through the half-open door into the
dirty tap-room, a couple of fellows playing with
greasy cards; a huge dog lay under the table
and glared with its large red eyes; the kitchen
was deserted; the rooms too; the floor was wet,
the storm rattled, the rain beat against the
windows – “and now to bed! said I.”
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