But nearer by, close to the stream, our host has a flooded trout-box, and he presently comes stumbling out to it along some rough boards thrown down for a path.  He unlocks the padlock, opens the lid, and we group around to witness the sacrifice,—­innocent speckle-sides butchered to make a Pyrenean holiday.  There is no fly-casting, no adroit play of rod and reel; the old gentleman plunges in his bare arm, there is a splashing and a struggle, and his hand has closed over a victim and brings it up to the light,—­a glistening trout, alive, breathless, and highly surprised and annoyed.  He takes the upper jaw in his other thumb and forefinger and bends it sharply backward; something breaks at the base of the skull and the fish lies instantly dead.  This painless mode of taking off is new to us, and we concur in approving its suddenness and certainty.  And so he proceeds, until the baker’s dozen of trout lie on the boards at his feet.  Then he closes and locks the box, bows to the spectators, and retires with the spoils; while we go back to our communings with the river and the garden.

II.

It is a trifle later than it should be when we finally start afresh; and newly-come clouds are moping about the mountains and banking up unwelcomely near the hills of the col ahead.  The ascent begins at once in long, gradual sweeps, and for an hour as we ride and walk progressively higher, the view of the valley behind lessens in the haze, and the clouds in front become thicker and thicker.  There is then a straight incline toward the last, of a mile or more; the notch of the col is sharp-cut against the sky just ahead, and we hurry on to gain a shred at least of the vanishing view before it is too late.  In vain; we are standing upon the Col d’Aspin,—­a herd of cloud-fleeces wholly filling the new valley ahead and now whitening also the Campan Vale behind us.

This is not such an irremediable disappointment as might appear.  We resolve now and here to outgeneral circumstances.  The view from the Col d’Aspin is unquestionably too fine to be lost, and we decide to return from Luchon to Bigorre by this same route, instead of leaving by rail.  Thus we shall recross this col; and vengeful care shall be taken to await a flawless day for the crossing.

So we get into the carriages again and speed off down the long slopes which lead into the Arreau basin, grimly regarding the clouds and promising ourselves recoupment to the full.  By the road, it is five miles before the carriages will be on level ground again, and three miles thence to Arreau.  The drivers point out a short-cut down the mountain, and some of us are quickly on foot, crossing the road’s great arcs with steep descent, stepping lower and lower over pastures and ploughed ground and through reappearing copses and thickets, until we are at last upon the road again in the floor of the valley.  Here at a stone bridge the party finds us, and soon after, all are bowling into Arreau and traversing its one long street to the low door of the Hotel d’Angleterre.