Lourdes is a gate-house of the Pyrenees; it was clear that my sister and cousins had threaded its echoing porch. Their way was good enough for us. We swung to the right, dived into and out of the sleeping town, and flung up the pale, thin road that heads for Spain.... It was when we had slipped through Argelès, and Jonah was still before us, that we knew that if we would catch him we must climb to Gavarnie. The daylight was waxing now, and when we came to Pierrefitte I switched off the lights. There is a gorge in the mountains some seven miles long. It is, I think, Nature's boudoir. Its tall, steep walls are hung with foliage--a trembling, precious arras, which spring will so emblazon with her spruce heraldry that every blowing rod breathes a refreshing madrigal. Its floor is a busy torrent--fretting its everlasting way by wet, grey rocks, the vivid green of ferns, and now and again a little patch of greensward--a tender lawn for baby elves to play on. Here is a green shelf, ladies, stuck all with cowslips; and there, another--radiant with peering daffodils. In this recess sweet violets grow. Look at that royal gallery; it is fraught with crocuses--laden with purple and gold. Gentians and buttercups, too, have their own nurseries. But one thing more--this gorge is full of fountains. They are its especial glory. All the beauty in the world of falling water is here exhibited. Tremendous falls go thundering: long, slender tresses of water plunge from a dizzy height, lose by the way their symmetry, presently vanish into sparkling smoke; cascades, with a delicate flourish, leap from ledge to ledge; stout heads of crystal well bubbling out of Earth; elegant springs flash musically into their brimming basins of the living rock. The mistress of this shining court is very beautiful. A bank is overhanging a little bow-shaped dell, as the eaves of an old house lean out to shelter half a pavement. As eaves, too, are thatched, so the brown bank is clad with emerald moss. From the edge of the moss dangles a silver fringe. Each gleaming, twisted cord of it hangs separate and distinct, save when a breath of wind plaits two or three into a transient tassel. The fringe is the waterfall. Enchanted with such a fairyland, we lingered so long over our passage that we only reached Gavarnie with a handful of moments to spare. As we had expected, here were the others, a little apart from the car, their eyes lifted to the ethereal terraces of the majestic Cirque. The East was afire with splendour. All the blue dome of sky was blushing. Only the Earth was dull. Suddenly the topmost turret of the frozen battlements burst into rosy flame.... One by tremendous one we saw the high places of the world suffer their King's salute. Little wonder that, witnessing so sublime a ceremony, we forgot all Time.... The sudden clack of shutters flung back against a wall brought us to earth with a jar. We turned in the direction of the noise.