with this change in coloring. The slim, fragile grace of slim trees and
fragile cliffs had been replaced by trees of heroic proportions,
and by outlines nobly rounded and full--like the breasts of a mother.
The whole country had an astonishing look of vigor--of the vigor which
comes with rude strength; and it had that charm which goes with all
untamed beauty--the power to sting one into a sense of agitated
enjoyment.

Even the farm-houses had been suddenly transformed into fortresses.
Each one of the groups of the farm enclosures had its outer walls, its
miniature turrets, and here and there its rounded bastions. Each farm,
apparently, in the olden days had been a citadel unto itself. The
Breton had been a very troublesome neighbor for many a long century;
every ploughman, until a few hundred years ago, was quite likely to
turn soldier at a second's notice--every true Norman must look to his
own sword to defend his hearth-stone. Such is the story those stone
turrets that cap the farm walls tell you--each one of these turrets was
an open lid through which the farmer could keep his eye on Brittany.

Meanwhile, along the roads as we rushed swiftly by, a quieter life was
passing. The farm wagons were jogging peacefully along on a high-road
as smooth as a fine lady's palm--and as white. The horses were
harnessed one before the other, in interminable length of line.
Sometimes six, sometimes eight, even so many as ten, marched with great
gravity, and with that majestic dignity only possible to full-blooded
Percherons, one after the other. They each wore a saddle-cloth of
blue sheepskin. On their mottled haunches this bit of color made their
polished coats to gleam like unto a lizards' skin.

Meanwhile, also, we were nearing Coutances. The farm-houses were