Then we started off again, having given but a hasty glance at the
crumbling home of good old Lancelot, the one a fairy stole from his
mother and kept in a shining palace at the bottom of a lake. The dwarfs
have disappeared, the drawbridge has flown away, and lizards now crawl
where formerly the entrancing Genevieve dreamed of her lover gone to
fight the giants in Trebizonde.
We went back through the same paths to the forest; the shadows were
lengthening, the flowers and shrubs were hardly visible, and the blue
peaks of the low mountains opposite seemed to grow taller against the
fading sky. The river, which is bordered by artificial quays for half a
mile outside the city, now becomes free to spread its waters at will
over the meadow; its wide curve stretched far away into the distance,
and the pools of water coloured by the setting sun looked like immense
golden platters forgotten on the grass.
Till it reaches Roche-Maurice, the Eilorn follows the road, which winds
around the foot of the rocky hills, the uneven eminences of which extend
into the valley. We were riding in a gig driven by a boy who sat on one
of the shafts. His hat had no strings and consequently blew off
occasionally, and during his efforts to catch it, we had plenty of time
to admire the landscape.
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