The mediaeval townsman rarely trusted himself very far outside the city
gates, and our enterprising marauders, whom to outward view seemed
stalwart enough to stand great fatigue, proved so soft under the hot sun
along the shadeless road that by the time they reached Breckenheim,
barely six leagues from Frankfort, there was a mopping of brows and a
general feeling that the limit of endurance had been reached.
At Breckenheim Roland called a halt for midday refreshment, and he was
compelled to wait nearly half an hour until the last straggler of his
woebegone crew limped from the road on to the greensward in front of the
_Weinstaube_ which had been selected for a feeding-place. Black bread
and a coarse kind of country cheese were the only provisions obtainable,
but of these eatables there was an ample supply, and, better than all to
the jaded wayfarers, wine in abundance, of good quality, too, for
Breckenheim stands little more than a league to the north of the
celebrated Hochheim.
The wanderers came in by ones and twos, and sank down upon the benches
before the tavern, or sprawled at full length on the short grass, where
Kurzbold and his three friends dropped promptly off into sleep.
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