The temperature grew colder; olive and ilex disappear, next vine and almond, then mulberry, walnut, and white oak; box grows plentiful. We enter on a monotonous region, stretching from the limit of cultivation to the lower edge of the beech woods, where the chief plant is Satureia montana, known here as pébré d’asé,—asses’ pepper,—from the acrid smell of its small leaves, impregnated with essential oil. Certain little cheeses which form part of our provisions are powdered with this strong spice, and more than one of us casts a famishing glance at the provision bags carried by the mule. Our rough, early expedition had brought an appetite, nay, better still, a devouring hunger, “latrantem stomachum,” as Horace wrote. I showed my companions how to still this hunger until we came to our next halt, pointing out a little sorrel with arrow-shaped leaves, springing among the loose stones, and to set an example I gathered a mouthful. There was a laugh at the notion. I let them laugh, and soon saw one busier than another gathering the precious sorrel. While chewing the acid leaves we came to the beeches, first large solitary bushes, sweeping the ground, then dwarf trees, close together, then strong trunks, forming a thick dark forest whose soil is a chaos of limestone blocks. Overloaded in winter by snow, beaten all the year round by fierce gusts of the Mistral, many are branchless, twisted into strange shapes, or even prostrate. An hour or more was passed in traversing the wooded zone, which, seen from a distance, looked like a black girdle on the sides of the mountain. Now again the beeches became stunted and scattered; we had reached their upper limit, and, despite the sorrel, all were right glad to come to the spot chosen for our halt and breakfast.