On winter nights, when the fox creeps stealthily
over the dry leaves, when the tiles fall from the pigeon-house and the
reeds bend in the marshes, when the beech-trees stoop in the wind, and
the wolf ambles over the moonlit snow, while one is alone by the dying
embers listening to the wind howl in the empty hallways, how charming it
must be to let one's heart dwell on its most cherished despairs and long
forgotten loves!
We spied a hovel with a Gothic portal; further on was an old wall with
an ogive door; a leafless bush swayed there in the breeze. In the
courtyard the ground is covered with heather, violets, and pebbles; you
walk in, look around and go out again. This place is called "The temple
of the false gods," and used to be, it is thought, a commandery of
Templars.
Our guide started again and we followed him. Presently a steeple rose
among the trees; we crossed a stubble-field, climbed to the top of a
ditch and caught a glimpse of a few of dwellings: the village of
Pomelin. A rough road constitutes the main street and the village
consists of several houses separated by yards. What tranquillity! or
rather what forlornness! The thresholds are deserted; the yards are
empty.
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