I only knew that somewhere, now at the back of my head, now on my tongue-tip, there hung a word I desired to utter, but could not.

I was still searching for it when the gig climbed over the summit of a gentle rise, and the "Indian Queens" hove in sight.
It is not usual for a village to lie a full mile beyond its inn: yet I never doubted this must be the case with Pitt's Scawens.

Nor was I in the least surprised by the appearance of this lonely tavern, with the black peat-pool behind it and the high-road in front, along which its end windows stare for miles, as if on the look-out for the ghosts of departed coaches full of disembodied travellers for the Land's End.
I knew the sign-board over the porch: I knew--though now in the twilight it was impossible to distinguish colours--that upon either side of it was painted an Indian Queen in a scarlet turban and blue robe, taking two black children with scarlet parasols to see a blue palm-tree.
I recognised the hepping-stock and granite drinking-trough beside the porch; as well as the eight front windows, four on either side of the door, and the dummy window immediately over it.

Only the landlord was unfamiliar.

He appeared as the gig drew up--a loose-fleshed, heavy man, something over six feet in height--and welcomed me with an air of anxious hospitality, as if I were the first guest he had entertained for many years.
"You received my letter, then ?" I asked.
"Yes, surely.