“The older ones, yes. But we in this household enjoy a wider diet than only what fruit has been grown in our own linguistic garden. We have a fair amount in Spanish and French, and of course the Greek classics, in their originals and in translations into the various European tongues. And nearly all the great English literature from the sixteenth to the nineteenth century is represented. That is Sabina’s passion. She hopes to continue her studies in English literature, perhaps at one of the British universities. And then we have many of your famous American authors. Sabina and I read English fluently and relish the great British writers—Burns, Shakespeare, Scott, Tennyson, Dickens, Wordsworth. Actually, my favorite of all is a nineteenth-century Scotsman. I have a complete set of his works right over here.”

The baron led the way to a prominent bookcase set apart from the rest, which boasted an array of leather-backed volumes of great variety of thickness.

“MacDhonuill… hmm, I’ve never heard of him,” remarked McCallum, gazing back and forth along the spines of the books.

“Very few people have these days,” said the baron. “I’m afraid his reputation has fallen on some hard times in this century. But one would think, with the similarity of names, that you would be familiar with his work.”

“Ah, Baron, you betray your lack of knowledge. Mc denotes Irish roots, Mac Scottish.”

Baron von Dortmann smiled. “I might counter by reminding you that they are the same roots if you dig deep enough into the soil of your common past, the very word Scot originally being the name of those who came across the North Channel from Scotia, as Ireland was then called.”

“Touché, Baron! You do me one better at my own history! Still, I must confess my ignorance of your favorite author.”

“You are forgiven. Perhaps when you leave, I shall lend you one of his books so that you might sample to see if his style suits you.”

“I’d be delighted.”

“He’s not for everyone, but I find his books meat indeed.”

“Do you read them in English?”

“Usually, although nearly all have been translated into German, and we have a few of those as well.”

“What does he write?”

“Sermons, poems, fairy tales, essays, but mostly novels.”

“Stories? What—romance, adventure?”

“Everything in one—romance, mystery, characterization—like no stories you have ever read. You’ll see when I give you one. But shall we continue on? We’ve come all the way through.”

Indeed, as they talked, they had slowly worked their way through to the west wall of the library, the front entrance to it, through whose wide double doors the baron now led.

“Why, we’re right back where we started,” said McCallum. “Here are our rooms, Matt,” he added to his son.

“I thought you said we were going to get lost, Herr von Dortmann,” said Matthew.