There was a farmhouse at no great distance,
and thither we bent our steps; but the sole inhabitant could give no
assistance, and, in default of information, Liotir generously proposed
to treat me to a bottle of wine, over which we might discuss our further
proceedings. The state of fever, however, to which the garlic and the
dirt of Die had brought me, made it seem impossible to eat or drink
anything; so I suggested instead that I should treat him, and that
seemed to be rather what he had meant by his proposal. Nothing much came
of our discussion, and we marched on hot and faint for an hour more,
when a casual man told us that our straight line to the _Foire de
Fondeurle_ lay across the plain on our left hand, and up a most
objectionable-looking hill beyond, thickly covered with brushwood and
showing no signs of a path.
As we crossed the plain, there was still the same total absence of
water, and we reached the bottom of the hill in a state of mind and body
which rebelled against the exertion of struggling with the sand and
shingle and brushwood.
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