Lux, the village in which the legend begins, and the village beyond it, are not particularly interesting places, situate on the border of the Forêt de Velours, some twenty or more kilometres north-east of Dijon, in Wiltshire-like scenery reminding one of Salisbury Plain. If you want a not too exciting excursion, to fill an otherwise idle day, by all means go there; but truth compels me to add that this Creux du Diable, when you have found it[179]--and it is not particularly easy to find, being hidden one hundred yards within the wood--is not exciting. It is just a tangled pit running sheer down from the scrub that borders the forest path. One look at it was enough. We felt no desire to follow the devil down into its depths, nor did conscience tell us that we deserved to. True, we, too, had hunted on Easter morning, without going to Mass; but then we had hunted a legend, not a boar--and surely that makes all the difference. Back to the village, then, we went; and there I re-discovered a peasant, of whom I had asked the way. He was sitting in a lovely doorway, at the top of some broken steps, reading a paper. Hearing the whirr of the wheels, he looked up. "Ah ha! did you find it?" "Thanks to you," said I, and joined him on the steps. "Mon Dieu," says he, "It's a strange place. It ends almost in a point--this Creux du Diable. It is just full of foxes' holes; and as for the vipers--there are so many there that, when the time comes to cut the wood, they have to do it in the fraiche; sans cela ils vous mordent les jambes à tout instant. O! il y en a; il y en a! "Why do they bite less in the fraiche--these limbs of Satan?" I asked him. "Oh! they are busy in the morning (font leur travail le matin)." I tried to get the old man's version of the legend; but, discovering that he knew nothing of it, I bid him farewell. "Good-bye," said he, shaking my hand warmly, "When we meet at Dijon, nous irons boire un coup." So we rode home through a hop country--a land of blackthorn and good purple furrows, dotted with stacks of poles. Will you listen, while we go, to the legend of that viper-haunted pit? THE DEVIL'S PIT It is Easter day. From the belfry the Alleluia rings out; the lark sings it above the meadows; the thrush whistles it in the woods; the sun writes it in letters of gold on the blue, blue sky. All nature is in her gayest mood, to celebrate the festival of Christ's resurrection. In the village of Lux, all hearts are echoing this Alleluia. The good people, in their holiday attire, go to hear matins, and to receive communion with holy Jesus, the renewer of heavenly as of earthly spring. But to Gaston, the lord of the village, the pure joys of the Christian Easter are unknown. He is a young baron, proud, haughty, violent, and devoted only to the chase. Loudly he sounds the horn, and cries to his servants: "Saddle the horses, and bring hither my hounds."