There was a
wayside chapel with painted frescoes and Latin inscriptions (why
didn't we make a note of them, we wonder?) and before it a cold gush
sluicing from a lion's mouth into a stone basin. A blue crockery mug
stood on the rim, and the bowl was spotted with floating petals from
pink and white rose-bushes. We can still see our companion, tilting
a thirsty bearded face as he drank, outlined on such a backdrop of
pure romantic beauty as only enriches irresponsible youth in its
commerce with the world. The river bends sharply to the left under a
prodigious cliff, where is some ancient castle or religious house.
There he stands, excellent fellow, forever (in our memory) holding
that blue mug against a Maxfield Parrish scene.
Just around that bend, if you are discreet, a bathe can be
accomplished, and you will reach the _Lion_ by supper time, vowing
the Danube the loveliest of all streams.
Of the _Lion_ itself, now that we compress the gland of memory more
closely, we have little to report save a general sensation of
cheerful comfort. That in itself is favourable: the bad inns are
always accurately tabled in mind. But stay--here is a picture that
unexpectedly presents itself. On that evening (it was July 15, 1912)
there was a glorious little girl, about ten years old, taking supper
at the _Lion_ with her parents. Through the yellow shine of the
lamps she suddenly reappears to us, across the dining room--rather a
more luxurious dining room than the two wayfarers were accustomed to
visit.
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