Thanks to twenty years of studious restoration by Viollet le Duc, this antique jewel shines in its setting of slope and plain as perfect to-day (seen from the distance) as when the Crusaders started from its crenelated gates for the conquest of the Holy Sepulchre. The acropolis of Carcassonne is crowned with Gothic battlements, the golden polygon of whose walls, rising from Roman foundations and layers of ruddy Visigoth brick to the stately marvel of its fifty towers, forms a whole that few can view unmoved. We found the Cadets lunching on the platform of the great western keep, while a historic pageant organized in their honor was winding through the steep mediæval streets—a cavalcade of archers, men at arms, and many-colored troubadours, who, after effecting a triumphal entrance to the town over lowered drawbridges, mounted to unfurl their banner on our tower. As the gaudy standard unfolded on the evening air, Mounet-Sully’s incomparable voice breathed the very soul of the “Burgraves” across the silent plain and down through the echoing corridors below. While we were still under the impression of the stirring lines, he changed his key and whispered:— _Le soir tombe_. . . . _L’heure douce_ _Qui s’èloigne sans secousse_, _Pose à peine sur la mousse_ _Ses pieds_. _Un jour indècis persiste_, _Et le crèpuscule triste_ _Ouvre ses yeux d’améthyste_ _Mouillès_. Night came on ere the singing and reciting ended, a balmy Southern evening, lit by a thousand fires from tower and battlement and moat, the old walls glowing red against the violet sky. Picture this scene to yourself, reader mine, and you will understand the enthusiasm of the artists and writers in our clan. It needed but little imagination then to reconstruct the past and fancy one’s self back in the days when the “Trancavel” held this city against the world. Sleep that night was filled with a strange phantasmagoria of crenelated châteaux and armored knights, until the bright Provençal sunlight and the call for a hurried departure dispelled such illusions. By noon we were far away from Carcassonne, mounting the rocky slopes of the Cevennes amid a wild and noble landscape; the towering cliffs of the “Causses,” zebraed by zig-zag paths, lay below us, disclosing glimpses of fertile valley and vine-engarlanded plain. One asks one’s self in wonder why these enchanting regions are so unknown. _En route_ our companions were like children fresh from school, taking haphazard meals at the local inns and clambering gayly into any conveyance that came to hand. As our way led us through the Cevennes country, another charm gradually stole over the senses.