o again at a good round pace, for black care
follows hard after us, and discretion prevails not a little over valour
in some timorous spirits of the party. At any moment we may meet the
sergeant, who will send us back. At any moment we may encounter a flying
shell, which will send us somewhere farther off than Grez.

Grez--for that is our destination--has been highly recommended for its
beauty. "_Il y a de l'eau_," people have said, with an emphasis, as if
that settled the question, which, for a French mind, I am rather led to
think it does. And Grez, when we get there, is indeed a place worthy of
some praise. It lies out of the forest, a cluster of houses, with an old
bridge, an old castle in ruin, and a quaint old church. The inn garden
descends in terraces to the river; stableyard, kailyard, orchard, and a
space of lawn, fringed with rushes and embellished with a green arbour.
On the opposite bank there is a reach of English-looking plain, set
thickly with willows and poplars. And between the two lies the river,
clear and deep, and full of reeds and floating lilies. Water-plants
cluster about the starlings of the long low bridge, and stand half-way
up upon the piers in green luxuriance. They catch the dipped oar with
long antennae, and chequer the slimy bottom with the shadow of their
leaves. And the river wanders hither and thither among the islets, and
is smothered and broken up by the reeds, like an old building in the
lithe, hardy arms of the climbing ivy. You may watch the box where the
good man of the inn keeps fish alive for his kitchen, one oily ripple
following another over the top of the yellow deal. And you can hear a
splashing and a prattle of voices from the shed under the old kirk,
where the village women wash and wash all day among the fish and
water-lilies. It seems as if linen washed there should be specially cool
and sweet.

We have come here for the river. And no sooner have we all bathed than
we board the two shallops and push off gaily, and go gliding under the
trees and gathering a great treasure of water-lilies. Some one sings;
some trail their hands in the cool water; some lean over the gunwale to
see the image of the tall poplars far below, and the shadow of the boat,
with balanced oars and their own head protruded, glide smoothly over the
yellow floor of the stream. At last, the day declining--all silent and
happy, and up to the knees in the wet lilies--we punt slowly back again
to the land