the queer little rock village of Rochecorbon, whose lighted windows
glared at us like cat's eyes away high up above the road, one dark
evening (when we'd been belated after an excursion) getting back to
Tours.

Luckily the Lightning Conductor appreciated Loches at its true value,
and told me it was well worth making a short detour--as we must--to see.
We had to go out of our way as far as a place called Cormery, but that
was nothing, and yesterday morning early we started. It was the first
sparkling blue-and-gold day we have had for a while; it seemed as if it
must have come across to us from Provence, as a sample, to show what we
might expect if we hurried on there. The air was like champagne--or
Vouvray--and we spun along at our very best on the smooth, wide Route
Nationale, our faces turned towards Provence as a graceful compliment
for the gift of the weather.

We have a neat little trick of getting to places just in time for lunch,
and we managed it at Loches, as usual. We'd hardly driven into the town
before I fell in love with its quaintness; but I didn't fall in love
with the hotel until I'd been surprised with a perfectly delicious
_dejeuner_. Then I let myself go; and when I'd seen how pretty the
old-fashioned bedrooms were, I begged to stay all night instead of going
on. Brown seems to regard my requests as if they were those of
royalty--commands; and he rearranged our programme accordingly. I'm
writing in a green-and-pink damask bedroom now, but when I shut my eyes
I can see the castle and the dungeons and--Madame Cesar. Yes, I think I
can find my way back for your benefit, and return on our own tracks.

First, like a promising preface to the ruined stronghold of the terrible
Louis, we went through a massive gateway, flanked with towers, and
climbed up a winding street of ancient, but not decrepit houses, to come
out at last upon a plateau with the gigantic walls of the castle on our
left. When I remembered _who_ caused those outworks and walls to be put
up, so high and grim and strong, and _why_, I felt a little "creep" run
up my spine at sight of the enormous mass of stonework. "Who enters here
leaves hope behind" might have been written over the gateway in the
dreadful days when Loches was in its wicked prime. Those walls are
colossal, like perpendicular cliffs. At a door in one of them we tinkled
a bell, and presently, with loud unlocking of double doors, quite a
pretty young girl appeared and invited u