prophetess.  There is a soft light in her full blue eye that does not belong to earth.  I wonder not the soldiery deemed her chosen by God to lead them to successful battle; had I lived in those times I could have followed her consecrated banner to the ends of the earth.  In the statue, she stands musing, with her head drooping forward, as if the weight of the breastplate oppressed her woman’s heart; the melancholy soul which shines through the marble seems to forebode the fearful winding-up of her eventful destiny.

The afternoon was somewhat advanced, by the time I had seen the palace and gardens.  After a hurried dinner at a restaurant, I shouldered my knapsack and took the road to St. Germain.  The day was gloomy and cheerless, and I should have felt very lonely but for the thought of soon reaching England.  There is no time of the year more melancholy than a cold, cloudy day in March; whatever may be the beauties of pedestrian traveling in fairer seasons, my experience dictates that during winter storms and March glooms, it had better be dispensed with.  However, I pushed on to St. Germain, threaded its long streets, looked down from the height over its magnificent tract of forest and turned westward down the Seine.  Owing to the scantiness of villages, I was obliged to walk an hour and a half in the wind and darkness, before I reached a solitary inn.  As I opened the door and asked for lodging, the landlady inquired if I had the necessary papers.  I answered in the affirmative and was admitted.  While I was eating supper, they prepared their meal on the other end of the small table and sat down together.  They fell into the error, so common to ignorant persons, of thinking a foreigner could not understand them, and began talking quite unconcernedly about me.  “Why don’t he take the railroad?” said the old man:  “he must have very little money—­it would be bad for us if he had none.”  “Oh!” remarked his son, “if he had none, he would not be sitting there so quiet and unconcerned.”  I thought there was some knowledge of human nature in this remark.  “And besides,” added the landlady, “there is no danger for us, for we have his passport.”  Of course I enjoyed this in secret, and mentally pardoned their suspicions, when I reflected that the high roads between Paris and London are frequented by many imposters, which makes the people naturally mistrustful.  I walked all the next day through a beautiful and richly cultivated country.  The early fruit trees were bursting into bloom, and the farmers led out their cattle to pasturage in the fresh meadows.  The scenery must be delightful in summer—­worthy of all that has been said or sung about lovely Normandy.  On the morning of the third day, before reaching Rouen, I saw at a distance the remains of Chateau Galliard, the favorite castle of Richard Coeur de Lion.  Rouen breathes everywhere of the ancient times of Normandy.  Nothing can be more picturesque than its quaint, irregular wooden houses, and the low, mossy mills, spanning the clear streams which rush through its streets.  The Cathedral, with its four towers, rises from among the clustered cottages like a giant rook, split by the lightning and worn by the rains of centuries is into a thousand fantastic shapes.