He stopped at the stream which separated Cognin from Saint Cassin. He cleared it at a bound, and found himself this time on a piece of land which had been outside the straight line of cultivation on the estate, and had not been included in the bill of sale. It remained henceforth his only landed property. At the foot of the slope he stopped a moment to get his breath, like a company that comes upon some shelter in retreat. Then he began to clamber up the slope, not without difficulty, for he slipped and had to thrust his cane in the ground to hold his balance. The path, faintly marked at best, ended by losing itself altogether, and he made his way as well as he could in the direction of the solitary tree that stood out clear against the sky on the summit. It was an old oak, which had been spared, not for its age nor the fine effect of its height and branches, but on account of a beginning of dry rot that impaired its saleability. Its clinging leaves, all tightened and shrivelled up after the manner of oaks, the better to defend themselves against the wind, were loath even now to fall, their rusty tints appearing here and there beneath the rime. Along the hillside the tree trunks cut by the woodsmen, but not carted away before winter came on, lay like corpses in the snow, some still clothed in their bark, others already stripped. Finally Mr. Roquevillard reached the point he had been making for. He touched with his hand, as if it had been a friend, the tree that had drawn him this far, admiring its grandeur and pride. “You are like me,” he reflected, mopping his brow. “You have seen your companions struck down, and are left alone. But we are condemned. Time is the axe that will soon fell us.” He had been a little retarded in climbing up the hill, and though the afternoon was not far advanced, the sun was already declining toward the Lepine chain. December days are so short, and the nearness of the mountains cut them shorter still. From the hill he could see the same view almost as from La Vigie: the Signal facing him, and below it the receding valley of the Echelles; on the right, in the background, beyond the plain, the lake of Bourget, the Revard range, and the Nivolet with its regular gradations. The snow made the outlines less distinct, blurring the foreground till the landscape was all soft and uniform. Threats of evening tinted it a delicate rose, spreading over all things the hue of living flesh.