Our next stopping-place is farther on, beyond the wayside inn where lives the idiot boy who gave me such a scare last time.

It is a poor enough place, where we stop, but there is an ice house, the only one I know.
We are allowed to go in and see the greenish masses of ice gleaming in the half-light, and bring out jars of sweet, black "lager beer," which we drink in the sunny doorway.

I shall always remember the flavor of the stuff, and the smell, and the wonder and chill of the ice house.
I vaguely remember something about a convent out in that direction, but I was tired and sleepy after my long walk, and glad to be returning home.

I hope they carried me a bit of the way, for I was very tired.

There were stars out before we reached home, and the men stopped in the middle of the street to bless the new moon.
It is pleasant to recall how we went bathing in the Polota.