And so it went, until we reached the Inn of the Twisted Pines.
It was an old log and plaster building; of many gables and small
windows; standing back a trifle from the road, with a high-walled yard
on all four sides. I had taken the precaution, that morning, to
dispatch an orderly to apprise the landlord of our coming; and every
human being about the place was drawn up within the enclosure to greet
us. Old Boniface met us at the gateway and held my stirrup as I
dismounted.
"My poor house has had no such honor," he said, "since the time the
Great Henry stopped for breakfast on his return from the Titian War."
"Well, my good man," said I, "you doubtless don't recollect the Great
Henry's visit, but, if your supper is what we hope for, I promise you
we will honor it as highly as he did that breakfast."
"Your Highness shall be served this instant."
"Give us half an hour and a place to get rid of this dust," said I.
I fancy the Inn had been changed but little since old Henry's day; and
the big room, where our table was spread, certainly not at all. The
oak floor was bare and worn into ruts and ridges--the great beam
rafters overhead were chocolate color from smoke and age--the huge
fireplace and the wall above it were black as a half-burnt back log.
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