And Still It Was Perhaps The Wildest View Of
All My Journey.
Peak upon peak, chain upon chain of hills ran surging
southward, channelled and sculptured by the winter streams, feathered
from head to foot with chestnuts, and here and there breaking out into a
coronal of cliffs.
The sun, which was still far from setting, sent a
drift of misty gold across the hill-tops, but the valleys were already
plunged in a profound and quiet shadow.
A very old shepherd, hobbling on a pair of sticks, and wearing a black
cap of liberty, as if in honour of his nearness to the grave, directed me
to the road for St. Germain de Calberte. There was something solemn in
the isolation of this infirm and ancient creature. Where he dwelt, how
he got upon this high ridge, or how he proposed to get down again, were
more than I could fancy. Not far off upon my right was the famous Plan
de Font Morte, where Poul with his Armenian sabre slashed down the
Camisards of Seguier. This, methought, might be some Rip van Winkle of
the war, who had lost his comrades, fleeing before Poul, and wandered
ever since upon the mountains. It might be news to him that Cavalier had
surrendered, or Roland had fallen fighting with his back against an
olive. And while I was thus working on my fancy, I heard him hailing in
broken tones, and saw him waving me to come back with one of his two
sticks.
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