The police horses were heavy footed, and wore part of their professional accoutrement, so we made a military clatter which obviously pleased the brave soul of my companion. We had to make all speed, and yet spare no care, for should we make a false turn there would be no stopping Monsieur Miste on this side of the frontier. There were, fortunately, many carts on the road with teams of four or five horses, carrying vast loads of produce from the outlying villages to Nice. Of the drivers of these we made careful inquiries, though we often had to wake them for the purpose, as they lay asleep on the top of the load of hay or straw. One of these men thanked us for arousing him, and would have detained us to relate a tale of some carter who, at a spot called the "Saut du Francais," had been thrown thus, as he slept, from the summit of his hay cart, and was broken to pieces on the rock two thousand feet below. As we topped the Col du Dragon the day broke, and lighted up the white peaks in front of us with a pink glow. The vast snow-capped range of the Alpes Maritimes was stretched out before us like a panorama--behind us the Mediterranean lay in a blue and perfect peace. The air was cool and clear as spring water. Alphonse Giraud pulled off his hat as he looked around him. "Blessed Name," he cried, "what a world the good God made when He was busy with it." Our horses threw up their heads, and answered to the voice with a willingness that made us wish we had a shorter journey before us. At St. Jean de la Riviere we rested them for fifteen minutes. The villagers were already astir, and we learnt that we had as yet gained only half an hour on the diligence. There was no doubt about the road now, for we were enclosed in a narrow valley, with only the great thoroughfare built above the river, and that not too securely. We made good speed, and soon sighted Venanson, a queer village perched above all vegetation on the spur of a mountain. At a turn of the road we seemed suddenly to quit France, and wheel into Switzerland. The air was Alpine, and the vegetation that of the higher valleys there. It was near seven o'clock when we approached St. Martin Lantosque, a quaint brown village of wood, clustering around a domed church. We soon found the Hotel des Alpes, which was but a sorry inn of no great cleanliness. The proprietor, a white-faced man, watched us descend without enthusiasm. "What time did the diligence come in?" I asked him. "These gentlemen have ridden," he said pleasantly. He was joined at this moment by a person who seemed to be a waiter, though he was clad more like a stable help. I repeated my question at a shout, and the attendant, placing his lips against the innkeeper's ear, issued another edition of it in a voice that awakened an echo far across the vale, and startled the tired horses. "The patron is deaf," explained the servant. "You don't say so," I answered.