light flashing at the end of the black bore. When I came out again into the
sunshine, I was following, not the Chavannon, but the Dordogne.

The gorge widened into a valley, where there were scattered cottages, cows,
sheep, and goats. Here I found a fair road on the western side of the
river, in the department of the Correze, and being now free of mind, I
loitered on the way, picking strawberries and watching the lizards. It
was dark when, descending again to the level of the Dordogne, I sought a
lodging in the little village of Port-Dieu. I stopped at a cottage inn,
where an old man soon set to work at the wood-fire and cooked me a dinner
of eggs and bacon and fried potatoes. He was a rough cook, but one very
anxious to please. The room where I passed the night had a long table in
it, and benches. There was no blanket on the bed, only a sheet and a heavy
patchwork quilt. Ah, yes, there was something else, carefully laid upon the
quilt. This was a linen bag without an opening, which, when spread out,
tapered towards the ends. Had I not known something about the old-fashioned
nightcap, I should have puzzled a long time before discovering what I was
expected to do with this object. The matter is simple to those who know
that the cap is formed by turning one of the ends in. There were mosquitoes
in the room, but they sang me to sleep, and if they amused themselves at my
expense afterwards, I was quite unconscious of it.

The murmur of the rushing Dordogne mingled not unpleasantly with the
impressions of dreams as I awoke. I got up and opened the small worm-eaten
window-frame. High thatched roofs, not many yards in front, were covered
with moss, which the morning rays, striking obliquely, painted the heavenly
green of Beatrice's mantle. Down the narrow road goats were passing,
followed by a sunburnt girl with a barge-like wooden shoe at the end of
each of her bare brown legs. The pure, life-giving air that entered by the
window made the blood glow with a better warmth than that of sparkling