A narrow gorge struck off into the mountains, and the path, skirting the torrent that thundered below, wound its way upwards. Limestone cliffs with ferns clinging to precarious footholds rose precipitously on either side, and high up, a thousand feet or more, the tops of trees showed up stark against the blue sky. To the brawling accompaniment of the stream I walked for an hour, when the gorge widened into a rock-strewn valley and I came in sight of an inn. In a rubbish-littered courtyard the proprietress was ministering to a stricken pony that lay buried beneath straw in the shelter of an outhouse: she turned at my approach. I could lunch there--assuredly. She would prepare an omelette forthwith, and François could wait. François had broken his back somehow, and was, as far as I could gather from the lady's patois and the patient's appearance, in a baddish way. The sound of our voices brought a travelling bag-man to the door. My arrival had evidently interrupted his _déjeûner_, and he courteously postponed its completion to stay in the sun and gossip while mine was being got ready. He was an Italian, and had come from somewhere across the frontier--I forget where--on foot. It was a long way, I remember. He glanced at my discarded knapsack: "And monsieur is also on the road?" I explained that it was for pleasure, and his eye lit. "Just so--_che comprende_. And so a man may walk many a long mile, with the sun in his eyes and the wind on his cheek and the noise of running water at his side for company--is it not?" Something of a poet--or at all events a kindred soul, for all he ate garlic "to" his _déjeûner_ and his visit to a barber was sadly over-due. "And monsieur goes to Beuil? It is but fourteen kilometres: I have myself descended from there this morning. To climb Mounier? A brave adventure"--he flourished his wooden toothpick--"when one is strong, and young. Yes, the snow lies _au sommet_ and the nights are cold _là haut_."