It is wide and deep and
represents to perfection the real Catholic holy-water basin, made to
receive the entire body of an infant, and not in the least like those
narrow shells in our churches in which you can only dip your fingers.
With its clear water rendered more limpid by the contrast of a greenish
bed, the vegetation which has grown all around it during the religious
calm of centuries, its crumbling angles, and its great mass of bronzed
stone, it looks like one of those hollowed rocks which contain salt
water.
After we had inspected the chapel carefully, we walked to the river,
crossed it in a boat, and plunged into the country.
It is absolutely deserted and strangely empty. Trees, bushes, sea-rushes,
tamarisks, and heather grow on the edge of the ditches. We came to broad
stretches of land, but we did not see a soul anywhere. The sky was bleak
and a fine rain moistened the atmosphere and spread a grey veil over the
country. The paths we chose were hollow and shaded by clusters of
foliage, the branches of which, uniting, drooped over our heads and
almost prevented us from walking erect. The light that filtered through
the dome of leaves was greenish, and as dim as on a winter evening.
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