As the Lozère is essentially a region of peasant owners, far from the richest of their class, I commend the fact to the opponents of peasant property--albeit, I know too well, to small purpose. The people have no right to the soil in the eyes of these political economists. Whether the possession of the soil makes them better or happier is wholly beside the question. Just as the great autocrat Louis XIV, after very serious reflection on the matter, came to the solemn conclusion that his subjects had no right to any property whatever, and that the sovereign was the divinely-ordained owner of everything supposed to belong to them, so certain writers believe that, according to some direct Providential arrangement--a second choosing of a special people--not a Canaan alone, but every inch of Mother Earth, is the heaven-sent heritage of the superior few. CHAPTER VIII. FROM MENDE TO ST. ÉNIMIE. So, just upon twelve months later, I once more found myself climbing to the summit of the lofty plateau between Mende and St. Énimie. It was a fortnight earlier in the year, and the weather was perfect; light clouds that had threatened rain cleared off, mild sunshine brightened the scene, and the air, although brisk and invigorating, was by no means cold. Still more enticing now looked the billowy swell of gold and purple mountains, and the dark cliffs frowning over green valleys. To-day, too, the exhilarating conviction of fulfilment was added to that of looking forward. A second time I had reached the threshold of the long-dreamed-of region of marvels, at last really to cross it and enter in. I was on my way to the Causses at last! More striking and beautiful than when first seen now seemed the upward drive from Mende--the beautiful gray cathedral cushioned against the soft green hills, the cheerful little town in its fertile valley, its wild entourage of far-stretching waste and barren peak. More musical still sounded in my ears the purling of the Lot, as unseen it ran between sunny pastures over its stony bed far below. Little I thought, indeed, although of firm intention, when making the journey so far twelve months all but two weeks ago, that on this 5th of September, 1888, I should be gazing on the same scene--a scene reminding me now, as then, of the vast reedy plateau gazed on at Saïda, dividing the Algerian traveller from the Sahara. This time I did not stop to make tea gipsy-wise on the turf in front of the farmhouse; nor, to my disappointment, did the children run out to share the contents of my bonbon-box. Not a soul was abroad; an eldritch solitude reigned everywhere. The Causse of Sauveterre is not reached till we have left the farmhouse and ruined château far behind. From that point the roads diverge, and we see our own leading to St. Énimie wind like a ribbon till lost to view in the gray, stony wilderness.