One of these men thanked us for arousing him, and would have detained us to relate a tale of some carter who, at a spot called the "Saut du Francais," had been thrown thus, as he slept, from the summit of his hay cart, and was broken to pieces on the rock two thousand feet below.
As we topped the Col du Dragon the day broke, and lighted up the white peaks in front of us with a pink glow.

The vast snow-capped range of the Alpes Maritimes was stretched out before us like a panorama--behind us the Mediterranean lay in a blue and perfect peace.

The air was cool and clear as spring water.
Alphonse Giraud pulled off his hat as he looked around him.
"Blessed Name," he cried, "what a world the good God made when He was busy with it." Our horses threw up their heads, and answered to the voice with a willingness that made us wish we had a shorter journey before us.
At St.Jean de la Riviere we rested them for fifteen minutes.

The villagers were already astir, and we learnt that we had as yet gained only half an hour on the diligence.
There was no doubt about the road now, for we were enclosed in a narrow valley, with only the great thoroughfare built above the river, and that not too securely.

We made good speed, and soon sighted Venanson, a queer village perched above all vegetation on the spur of a mountain.
At a turn of the road we seemed suddenly to quit France, and wheel into Switzerland.