precious metals blended.  This effect struck me at first (in the brilliant sunshine which alone kept me from being nipped with cold) as puzzling, but in a moment I had solved the “jewel mystery” of the mountains.  The rocks were of porphyry, and marble, and granite, spangled with mica; and over all spread in patches a lichen of rose, and green, and yellow, like chipped rubies and emeralds among gold-filings.

So wild and splendid was the scene, composed and painted by a peerless Master, that I slackened my pace, reluctant to leave so much splendour behind; but despite all delaying, we came after a time down to tree-level.  The landscape changed; the diamond spray of miniature cataracts dashed over high cliffs, among balsamic pine forests; the sunshine brought out the intense green of moss and fern.  We met porters struggling up the height with luggage on their backs, and fat women riding depressed mules.  It was very mediaeval, and I had the sensation of having walked into a picture—­round the corner of it, into the best part which you know must be there, though it can’t be seen by outsiders.

It took us an hour and a half to walk the eleven kilometres down to St. Rhemy, where we lunched well, and drank a sparkling wine of the country which may have been meretricious, but tasted good.  There was a douane, for we had now passed out of Switzerland into Italy, and my mule-pack was examined with curiosity; but why I should have been questioned with insistence as to whether I were concealing sausages, I could not guess, unless a swashbuckling German princeling who married into our family eight generations ago, was using my eyes for windows at the time.

I need not have feared that the best of the journey would be over at St. Rhemy, for the road (which broadened there, and became “navigable” for motor cars as well as horse-drawn vehicles), wound down still among stupendous mountains capped with snow, jagged peaks of dark granite, and purple porphyry which glowed crimson in contrast with the dazzling snow.

We did not leave St. Rhemy till long past one, and as we descended upon lower levels the sun grew hot.  More than once I called a halt, and we had a delicious rest under a tree in some exquisite glade a little removed from the roadside.  It was during one of these, while Finois cropped an indigestible branch, that Joseph opened his heart, and told me his life’s history.  It had been more or less adventurous, and it had held a tragedy, for Joseph had loved, and the fair had jilted him on the eve of their marriage, for a prosperous baker.  This fellow-feeling (for had we not both been thrown over for tradesmen?) made me wondrous kind towards Joseph; and when I had drawn from him the fact that his great ambition was to own three donkeys, and start in business for himself, I secretly determined to see what could be done towards forwarding this end.

We did not hurry, and while we were still far above Aosta, the shadows lengthened and thinned, like children who have grown too fast.  We exchanged chestnuts for pines, and the pure ethereal blue of Italy burned in the sky.  Everywhere was rich abundance of colour.  The green of trees and grass was luscious; even the shadows were of a translucent purple.  Below us the valley of Aosta lay, so dreamily lovely, so peaceful, that one could imagine there only happiness and prosperity.