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Up the street the stranger and the boy walked without meeting any one. They came to a straggling stone house with many wings that opened upon trellised verandas. It differed from the other stone buildings in not being surrounded by a fence. Its hinged windows were thrown open and white curtains flapped in the gentle breeze. Here the street broadened into a public square, the centre of which was occupied by a well. Hans Peter paused before the worn steps leading to the front door.

“Sir, this is the gasthaus,” he said.

The man looked up as if in search of a sign, but there was nothing to indicate that it was an inn.

“Where is the landlord?” he asked. “This seems to be a deserted village.”

Hans Peter stared at him.

“Where are the people who live in Zanah?” the stranger inquired, choosing words that the simple one would understand.

“I will go for Diedrich Werther,” the boy said. “It is the sunset hour, and the men and women of Zanah are busy getting all their work done before evening prayer.”