The day was nearly ended as we passed that town with a stolen moral history: and so swept onward, in and out among the islands, toward Avignon. Already the sun had fallen below the crest of the Cevennes; leaving behind him in the sky a liquid glory, and still sending far above us long level beams which gilded radiantly--far off to the eastward--the heights of Mont-Ventour. But we, deep in the deep valley, threaded our swift way among the islands in a soft twilight which gently ebbed to night. And then, as the dusk deepened to the westward, there came slowly into the eastern heavens a pale lustre that grew brighter and yet brighter until, all in a moment, up over the Alpilles flashed the full moon--and there before us, almost above us, the Rocher-des-Doms and the Pope's Palace and the ramparts of Avignon stood out blackly against the moon-bright sky. So sudden was this ending to our journey that there was a wonder among us that the end had come! * * * * * All the Felibres of Avignon were at the water-side to cheer us welcome as the _Gladiateur_, with reversed engines, hung against the current above the bridge of Saint-Benezet and slowly drew in to the bank. Our answering cheers went forth to them through the darkness, and a stave or two of "La Coupe" was sung, and there was a mighty clapping of hands. And then the gang-plank was set ashore, and instantly beside it--standing in the glare of a great lantern--we saw our Capoulie, the head of all the Felibrige, Felix Gras, waiting for us, his subjects and his brethren, with outstretched hands. From him came also, a little later, our official welcome: when we all were assembled for a _ponch d'honneur_ at the Hotel du Louvre--in the great vaulted chamber that once served the Templars as a refectory, and that has been the banquet-hall of the Felibrige ever since this later and not less honorable Order was founded, almost forty years ago. [Illustration: AVIGNON] Not until those formalities were ended could we of America get away to receive the personal welcome to which through all that day we had been looking forward with a warm eagerness--yet also sorrowing: because we knew that among the welcoming voices there would be a silence, and that a face would be missing from among those we loved. Roumanille was dead; and in meeting again in Avignon those who had been closest and dearest to him, and who to us were close and dear, there was heartache with our joy. SAINT-REMY-DE-PROVENCE, _August, 1894._ The Comedie Francaise at Orange I