astonishing sight, you see folks walking, or apparently walking, on
water. Standing bolt upright on a tiny raft, carefully maintaining their
balance, country people are towed from one side to the other.

These suburban and riverside quarters are full of charm. The soft reds
and browns of the houses, the old-world architecture and romantic sites,
tempt an artist at every turn. And all in love with a Venetian existence
may here find it nearer home.

A few villas let furnished during the summer months have little lawns
winding down to the water's edge and a boat moored alongside. Thus their
happy inmates can spend hot, lazy days on the river.

Turning our backs on the canal, by way of ivy-mantled walls, ancient
mills and tumbledown houses, we reach the Porte du Pont or Gate of the
Bridge. With other towns of the period, Moret was fortified. The girdle
of walls is broken and dilapidated, whilst firm as when erected in the
fourteenth century still stand the city gates.

Of the two the Porte du Pont is the least imposing and ornamental, but
it possesses a horrifying interest. In an upper storey is preserved one
of those man-cages said to have been invented for the gratification of
Louis XI, that strange tyrant to whose ears were equally acceptable the
shrieks of his tortured victims and the apt repartee of ready-witted
subjects.

"How much do you earn a day?" he once asked a little scullion, as
incognito he entered the royal kitchen.

"By God's grace as much as the King," replied the lad; "I earn my bread