'Tis a fair land
that of France, a gentle, a green, and a beautiful; the home of arts
and arms, of chivalry and romance, and (however sadly stained by the
excesses of modern times) 'twas the unbought grace of nations once, and
the seat of ancient renown and disciplined valor.
And of all that fair land of France, whose beauty is so bright and
bravery is so famous, there is no spot greener or fairer than that one
over which our travellers wended, and which stretches between the good
towns of Vendemiaire and Nivose. 'Tis common now to a hundred thousand
voyagers: the English tourist, with his chariot and his Harvey's Sauce,
and his imperials; the bustling commis-voyageur on the roof of the
rumbling diligence; the rapid malle-poste thundering over the chaussee
at twelve miles an hour--pass the ground hourly and daily now: 'twas
lonely and unfrequented at the end of that seventeenth century with
which our story commences.
Along the darkening mountain-paths the two gentlemen (for such their
outward bearing proclaimed them) caracoled together. The one, seemingly
the younger of the twain, wore a flaunting feather in his barret-cap,
and managed a prancing Andalusian palfrey that bounded and curveted
gayly. A surcoat of peach-colored samite and a purfled doublet of vair
bespoke him noble, as did his brilliant eye, his exquisitely chiselled
nose, and his curling chestnut ringlets.
Pages:
50
51
52
53
54
55
56
57
58
59
60
61
62
63
64
65
66
67
68
69
70
71
72
73
74