During nine days Calendau felled the larches that grew upon the flanks
of the mighty mountain, and hurled the forest piecemeal into the
torrent below. At the Rocher du Cire he is frightfully stung by myriads
of bees, during his attempt to obtain as a trophy for his lady a
quantity of honey from this well-nigh inaccessible place. The kind of
criticism that is appropriate for realistic literature is here quite out
of place. It must be said, however, that the episode is far from
convincing. Calendau compares his sufferings to those of a soul in hell,
condemned to the cauldron of oil. Yet he makes a safe escape, and we
never hear of the physical consequences of his terrible punishment.

The canto, in its vivid language, its movement, its life, is one of the
most astonishing that has come from the pen of its author. It offers
beautiful examples of his inspiration in depicting the lovely aspects of
nature. He finds words of liquid sweetness to describe the music of the
morning breezes breathing through the mass of trees:--

"La Ventoureso matiniero,
En trespirant dins la sourniero
Dis aubre, fernissié coume un pur cantadis,
Ounte di colo e di vallado,
Tóuti li voues en assemblado,
Mandavon sa boufaroulado.
Li mèle tranquilas, li mèle mescladis," etc.

The morning breeze of the Mont Ventoux, breathing into the mass of
trees, quivered like a pure symphony of song wherein all the voices
of hill and dale sent their breathings.