A little inn flying a Swiss flag nestles under a great rock, and there they put aside their knapsacks and lunched and rested in the mid-day shadow of the gorge and the scent of resin. “Grail!” said Ann Veronica, and then: “Oh, yes—of course! Anything but a holy one, I’m afraid. There were perches inside where she could crouch and labyrinths underneath where she could hide. Lucy stood relieved that she had not messed up the solo. Perhaps I ought to have let you order the dinner, but I think I got through it pretty well. One might have said that these trees grieved for their native soil; and, grieving, refused to bear. .
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