producing little else but rye and buckwheat, and the deep gorges sombre
with overhanging trees.

This road was so tedious, so hot and dusty, that, after walking a few miles
upon it, I lost patience altogether with what seemed to be its unreasonable
windings, and again made an effort to strike across country by means of
by-paths, in order to reach the spot where, according to the map and
compass, I thought Vayrac ought to be. I came to a seventeenth century
country-house, large enough to be termed a chateau, but now the dwelling of
some peasant-farmer. It was a dilapidated, apparently owl-haunted building,
with a dovecote tower over grown with ivy, and was half surrounded by a
wall, whose tottering, ornamental pinnacles told a story of comparative
grandeur that had come to grief in this remote spot. The farmer had been
winnowing his corn outside, and the narrow lane was ankle-deep with chaff.
The only human being that I could find here was a wild-looking girl, with a
bush of hair on her head, who made me understand, half in French, half in
patois, that I should never reach Vayrac by the way I was going. She sent
me off in another direction. I walked on, I know not how many miles,
without coming to any village or wayside auberge, over a shadeless plain in
the department of the Lot. There was no water; consequently not a bird was
to be seen or heard. But there were myriads of flies, and too many hornets
for my comfort, for some of them followed me with impertinent curiosity.

I confess that I do not like hornets. When I see them, they remind me of
the story of a donkey told me by a man in these parts. He in his youth
saw an unlucky ass that, quietly browsing, unconscious of indiscretion,
disturbed a hornets' nest. Suddenly the animal showed symptoms of unusual
excitement, which became rapidly more violent, until, after some amazing
antics, first on his front-legs and then on his hind-legs, he rolled over
on his back, and kicked violently at the sky. His master knew what had