For two hours the train from Nice had crossed and recrossed the River Var, as if uncertain which bank it should pursue. The journey had been punctuated by stoppages at innumerable small stations, apparently to enable the engine-driver to discuss politics with the proprietors of adjacent sawmills. The guard took no part in these discussions, but remained aloof--albeit within earshot--until his _confrère_ on the engine had scored his point. Then he blew a discordant blast on his horn, the driver climbed triumphantly back on to his engine, and we jolted on to the next political tourney-place. Where the valley widens the line appeared to make up its mind and to decide definitely for the right bank. The sawmills and patches of Indian corn gave place to orchards and pretty farms; the mountains on either flank of the valley towered to more majestic altitudes. For perhaps the tenth time the brakes screeched, and we came to a standstill beside a deserted platform. "Touet de Beuil!" said the guard gruffly, coming round to the carriage window. He was a man of few words, who appeared content to rely on the trumpet for any expression of his views or feelings. "_Oui, oui!_" he confirmed irritably as I climbed out, slightly incredulous. "_C'est ça_--Touet de Beuil--_V'là_!" He jerked his thumb over his shoulder at the mountains which frowned above us; the horn blared forth a shrill note of defiance, and he swung himself on to the departing train. I looked up to where he had indicated, and there, sure enough, perched crazily among pinnacles and buttresses of rock, was what appeared to be the stronghold of some medieval outlaw. I detected the brown roofs and quaint gables of a hamlet, apparently accessible to none but the eagles, yet boasting in this land of equality and fraternity a railway station of its own. Footsteps approached me as I stood adjusting the straps of my knapsack, and one of the inhabitants hurried down the lane on to the platform. Childish though it may seem, I was frankly disappointed. The new arrival was a meek-looking little man dressed in black, wearing a bowler hat. In one hand he carried a gingham umbrella, and under his arm a buff-coloured hen of singular imperturbability. Now a brigand may wear a bowler hat; moreover, he may carry a chicken under his arm, and yet preserve an air of outlawry. But to descend from a mountain fastness that belonged by rights to the sixteenth century and brandish an umbrella at a departing train was carrying the incongruous a shade too far. True, he swore roundly, as every good brigand should, at having missed the train. But I could not forgive him his gingham gamp.