aving behind, but soon, nearer mountains crowded them out of
sight. The country grew wild, with a strange grimness, like the face
of a blind Fate; cultivation ceased in despair of success; and alike
on the bare uplands and in the deep-scored valleys there were few
signs of human life. Then, suddenly, in such a setting, we came upon
the grandest of the Seven Marvels, the most wonderful lone rock in
Europe, Mont Aiguille, more like an obelisk of incalculable immensity
than a mountain. Once, it had been considered unscalable, and might
have remained virgin until this century of hardy climbers, had not
Charles the Eighth had a fancy to hear (not to see!) what was on top.
Up went a few of his bravest satellites, hoisting themselves on to the
aerial plateau by means of ropes and ladders, and bringing down
wondrous tales of impossible chamois, savage, brilliant-coloured
birds, and singular vegetation, which stories promptly went into all
the geographies of the day and were believed until a more practical
explorer named Jean Liotard climbed up, to please himself, in 1834.

We lost sight of this second Dauphine Marvel (the last one we were to
see) just before running up the steep hill which led down again into
the dark jaws of another mountain pass. It was the Col de la Croix
Haute; and once past this gateway of the Alps the landscape changed
slowly and indefinably, here and there suggesting that we were drawing
nearer to the south. Though we were still encompassed on every side by
mountains, they had lost their Alpine splendour of bearing; they
stooped, or poked their chins.

The country was now all brown and green; and, surfeited with beauty,
it seemed to me that here was nothing great. We sped through Aspres;
through Serres, on its rocky promontory; and on through Laragne, whose
ancient inn with the sign of a spider gave a name to the town. Pointed
brown-green mountains were crowned with pointed green-brown ruins,
hoary after much history-making; and at the pointed mountains'
brown-green feet those _avant-courriers_ of the South, almond trees,
had sat down to rest on their way home.

Still we flew on; but at Sisteron Jack slowed down the motor. Here
was something too curious for even spoiled sightseers to pass in a
hurry.

The town struggled hardily up one side of a gorge, deep and steep,
where the Durance has forced its patient way through a huge barrier of
rock whose tilted strata correspond curiously on both sides of t