He fancied himself in one of those beautiful valleys of Thessaly celebrated by Virgil, beside the sweet slopes of Lignon sung by Urfe, whose birthplace, in spite of what the biographers say, was falling into ruins not three miles from the Chateau des Noires-Fontaines.

He was roused by three light raps at his door.

It was Roland who came to see how he had passed the night.

He found him radiant as the sun playing among the already yellow leaves of the chestnuts and the lindens.
"Oh! oh! Sir John," cried Roland, "permit me to congratulate you.

I expected to find you as gloomy as the poor monks of the Chartreuse, with their long white robes, who used to frighten me so much in my childhood; though, to tell the truth, I was never easily frightened.