That night the travellers slept in Gien; the next day they passed the river and set forth (severally, as their custom was) on a short stage through the green plain upon the Berry side, to Châtillon-sur-Loire. It was the first day of the shooting; and the air rang with the report of firearms and the admiring cries of sportsmen. Overhead the birds were in consternation, wheeling in clouds, settling and re-arising. And yet with all this bustle on either hand, the road itself lay solitary. The Arethusa smoked a pipe beside a milestone, and I remember he laid down very exactly all he was to do at Châtillon: how he was to enjoy a cold plunge, to change his shirt, and to await the Cigarette’s arrival, in sublime inaction, by the margin of the Loire. Fired by these ideas, he pushed the more rapidly forward, and came, early in the afternoon and in a breathing heat, to the entering-in of that ill-fated town. Childe Roland to the dark tower came. A polite gendarme threw his shadow on the path. “_Monsieur est voyageur_?” he asked. And the Arethusa, strong in his innocence, forgetful of his vile attire, replied—I had almost said with gaiety: “So it would appear.” “His papers are in order?” said the gendarme. And when the Arethusa, with a slight change of voice, admitted he had none, he was informed (politely enough) that he must appear before the Commissary. The Commissary sat at a table in his bedroom, stripped to the shirt and trousers, but still copiously perspiring; and when he turned upon the prisoner a large meaningless countenance, that was (like Bardolph’s) “all whelks and bubuckles,” the dullest might have been prepared for grief. Here was a stupid man, sleepy with the heat and fretful at the interruption, whom neither appeal nor argument could reach. THE COMMISSARY. You have no papers? THE ARETHUSA. Not here. THE COMMISSARY. Why? THE ARETHUSA. I have left them behind in my valise. THE COMMISSARY. You know, however, that it is forbidden to circulate without papers? THE ARETHUSA. Pardon me: I am convinced of the contrary. I am here on my rights as an English subject by international treaty. THE COMMISSARY (_with scorn_). You call yourself an Englishman? THE ARETHUSA. I do. THE COMMISSARY. Humph.—What is your trade? THE ARETHUSA. I am a Scotch advocate. THE COMMISSARY (_with singular annoyance_). A Scotch advocate! Do you then pretend to support yourself by that in this department? The Arethusa modestly disclaimed the pretension. The Commissary had scored a point. THE COMMISSARY. Why, then, do you travel? THE ARETHUSA. I travel for pleasure. THE COMMISSARY (_pointing to the knapsack_, _and with sublime incredulity_). _Avec ça_? _Voyez-vous_, _je suis un homme intelligent_! (With that? Look here, I am a person of intelligence!)