One day, he saw a horse and rider approaching from the East; never before had he seen such an accord between horseman and mount, and had he been a travelled man, it might have reminded him of the Elvish way with all good beasts. The rider, who was dressed in the grey cloak of a priest, advanced towards the door of the auberge and knocked on it. Buttrebeurrousse opened the door somewhat diffidently.
"Are you monsou Buttrebeurrousse?" asked the priest in a strong Lottalorian accent.
"I am," replied the innkeeper. "Barlimand Buttrebeurrousse, at your service. Would Your Reverence care for some refreshment?"
"If you have Vieux Vignobles, I would gladly partake," replied the abbé. "And then we can resume our conversation." The priest kept his left fist closed, as if he were holding some mysterious object; but Buttrebeurrousse durst not inquire.
"Are you alone?" asked the abbé when Buttrebeurrousse had served him.
"Yes, monsieur, unless you count my wife la Carcharotte, who is unwell and cannot aid me in much, save in eating. I am not rich, monsieur, but que voulez-vous? It is not enough to be honest, in order to prosper in Terre-moyenne."
