with them. She is not of
the country, nor of that part of Italy which we enter below the Pass,
at Aosta. It is a strange costume. I do not know from what valley it
comes."

"Well," said I, as we drew near to the group in the road outside the
hotel, "if that girl, or at any rate her hat, did not come from the
Riviera somewhere, I will eat my panama."

Involuntarily I hastened my steps, and Joseph politely followed suit,
dragging after him Finois, who seemed to be walking in his sleep. I
felt it almost as a personal injury from the hand of Fate, that after
my unavailing search for donkeys in a land where I had thought to be
forced to beat them off with sticks, I should find other persons
provided with not one but two of the creatures.

[Illustration: "THAT IS THE DEJEUNER OF NAPOLEON".]

They were charming little beasts, one mouse-colour, one dark-brown
with large, grey-rimmed spectacles, and both animals were of the
texture of uncut velvet. The former carried an excellent pack, which
put mine to shame; the latter bore a boy's saddle, and the two were
being fed with great bread crusts by a bewitching young woman of about
twenty-six or -eight, wearing one of the toad-stool hats affected by
the donkey-women of Mentone. She looked up at our approach, and having
surveyed the pack and proportions of Finois with cold scorn, her
interest in our procession incontestably focused upon Joseph. She
tossed her head a little on one side, shot at the muleteer an
arrow-gleam, half defiant, half coquettish, from a pair of big grey
eyes fringed heavily with jet. She moistened full red lips, while a
faint colour lit her cheeks, under the deep stain of tan and a
tiger-lily powdering of freckles. Then, having seen the weary Joseph
visibly rejuvenate in the brief sunshine of her glance, she turned
away, and gave her whole attention to the donkeys.

"Hungry, Joseph?" I asked.

He had to bethink himself before he could answer. Then he replied that
he had food in his pocket, bread and cheese, and that Finois carried
his own dinner. They would be ready to go on, if I chose, or to
remain, if that were my pleasure. "It is too early for a final stop,
at a place where there can no amusement for the evening," said I. "We
had better go on. If you intend to stay outside with Finois, I'll send
you a bottle of beer, and you can, if you will, drink my health."

With this I went in, feeling sure that the time of my absence would
not pass heavily fo