There is a short cut to the main road. There
you'll find a tavern."
It was in my mind to say, "I am an Englishman, a traveller and writer,
and I am on a pilgrimage to Jerusalem. You misdoubt my appearance, and
are afraid of sheltering an unknown wanderer, but I am one whom you
would find it interesting and perhaps even profitable to harbour." But
my heart and lips were chilled.
I had taken off my pack, but put it on again humbly and, somewhat
abashed, prepared to leave. The family stood by staring. It was a very
unusual thing for a poor tramp to come and ask hospitality. Tramps as
a rule knew better than to come to their doors. Indeed, no tramp had
ever come there before. It rather touched them that I should have
believed they would shelter me. Their refusal troubled them somewhat.
"There's always plenty of room in the tavern," said the rich man to
his wife. "And they'll be glad to have a customer."
As I turned to go, some one brought a light, and a gleam fell on my
face. The company expected to see the cringing, long-suffering face
of a peasant in the presence of his master, but the light showed
something different....
"He is perhaps one of our own class ... or ... God knows what ..."
they thought, one and all. "It is hateful to have refused him.
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