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Indeed!"
That settled it. The conversation died abruptly; the friendly priest
relapsed into silence. He looked hurt and disappointed. This was more
than a joke. He had done his best to be civil to a suffering foreigner,
and this was his reward--to be fooled with the grossest of fables. Maybe
he remembered other occasions when Englishmen had developed a queer
sense of humour which he utterly failed to appreciate. A liar. Or
possibly a lunatic; one of those harmless enthusiasts who go about the
world imagining themselves to be the Pope or the Archangel Gabriel.
However that might be, he said not another word, but took to reading
his breviary in good earnest, for the first time.
The boat anchored. Natives poured out in a stream. Mr. Muhlen drove up
alone, presumably to his sumptuous hotel. The bishop, having gathered
his luggage together, followed in another carriage. He enjoyed the
drive along that winding upward track; he admired the festal
decorations of the houses, the gardens and vineyards, the many-tinted
rock scenery overhead, the smiling sunburnt peasantry.


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