Passing through many a tangled and dilapidated Burgundian village, I came at last, after miles of plodding across the plain, to a spot so savage of aspect, that it might well be a halting-place, even to-day, for an ascetic brotherhood faring forth in search of a site for a new foundation. On the left of the lonely road was a stagnant marsh, bordered with clumps of yellow reeds and brown bullrushes. Before me, a great expanse of sullen water, fringed with a line of distant, black fir trees, reflected on its broken surface the drifting, gray clouds. A dismal lake it was, marged with red and green rushes, dappled with broad-leaved water plants, and spotted with splashing drops. No human note broke the silence; no sound but the harsh cry of wild fowl, the croaking of frogs, the monotonous swish of falling rain. At my feet were growing thistles and deadly night-shade; through the reeds I caught a glimpse of a pink sow snouting in the mud. A feeling of intense exaltation arose within me--the delight born of unity with Nature in her elemental mood. I knew now why the Cistercians loved these spots. There welled up in me the same sensation of burning pleasure that lightened the life of the ascetic of eight hundred years ago, when, leaning upon the handle of his spade, as he paused for a moment from his labour, he watched the wind furrowing the rippled water, and heard the holy spirits of the air singing to the bending rushes on the bank. I rode on, past the gateway of the Abbey grounds, to the village of Citeaux, where I lunched with an asceticism that, though not inappropriate to the occasion, was due, I must confess, rather to the limitations of the innkeeper's resources, than to a voluntary compliance with the rule of St. Benedict. During the repast, Madame, standing before me, and punctuating her remarks with an occasional sweep of the back of her hand across her mouth, held forth upon the history of the Abbey. Learning from her that the buildings could be visited, I determined to see what was to be seen. Cycling boldly up to the gate of the monastery, and ignoring utterly a mighty hound, who nearly strangled himself in his efforts to rend me limb from limb, I looked about me. Near the gate was a white monk, walking slowly, with his eyes upon the ground. He bowed in response to my salutation; but, when he raised his head, his hesitation, and the spasmodic movements of his lips before he spoke, betrayed the effect of the rule of silence. The words came with an effort. "Vous n'avez qu'à sonner à la porte." I rang the bell accordingly, when there emerged, from the lodge opposite to the gate, another little, square-headed, white-robed monk, who, smiling, and bowing low, with spread hands, welcomed me to the monastery.