There was snow about them still on the mountain-sides and deep in drifts upon the roads.

The air was musical with the sound of innumerable freshets: they could be seen leaping and sparkling in the sunlight; the valleys below were green with the young green of spring, and the winds were tempered with the warmth of Italy.

A like change came upon the fugitives.

They laughed, where before they had wept; from under the seat they pulled out chickens which Misset had cooked with his own hands at Nazareth, bottles of the wine of St.Laurent, and bread; and Wogan allowed a halt long enough to get water from a spring by the roadside.
"There is no salt," said Gaydon.
"Indeed there is," replied Misset, indignant at the aspersion on his catering.

"I have it in my tobacco-box." He took his tobacco-box from his pocket and passed it into the carriage.