THE ROAD TO PARIS.

The sun had not yet risen above the hills when we three with a
single servant behind us drew rein at the end of the valley; and
easing our horses on the ascent, turned in the saddle to take a
last look at Caylus--at the huddled grey town, and the towers
above it. A little thoughtful we all were, I think. The times
were rough and our errand was serious. But youth and early
morning are fine dispellers of care; and once on the uplands we
trotted gaily forward, now passing through wide glades in the
sparse oak forest, where the trees all leaned one way, now over
bare, wind-swept downs; or once and again descending into a
chalky bottom, where the stream bubbled through deep beds of
fern, and a lonely farmhouse nestled amid orchards.

Four hours' riding, and we saw below us Cahors, filling the bend
of the river. We cantered over the Vallandre Bridge, which there
crosses the Lot, and so to my uncle's house of call in the
square. Here we ordered breakfast, and announced with pride that
we were going to Paris.

Our host raised his hands. "Now there!" he exclaimed, regret in
his voice. "And if you had arrived yesterday you could have
travelled up with the Vidame de Bezers! And you a small party--
saving your lordships' presence--and the roads but so-so!"

"But the Vidame was riding with only half-a-dozen attendants
also!" I answered, flicking my boot in a careless way.