It is said that although the mills on the Doubs are sometimes stopped from want of water, those which derive their motive power from this strange and impressive cavern have never known the supply to fail.
Before we started for our ramble among the woods and precipices which overhang the farther course of the Loue, we had sent off M.Paget to the _auberge_, with strict orders that he should at once get out the black horse, and bring the carriage to meet us at Ouhans, as one of us was not in so good order for walking as usual, and the day was fast slipping away.

Of course we saw nothing of him when we reached Ouhans; and as it was not prudent to wait for his arrival there, which might never take place, we walked through the broiling sun in the direction of the _auberge_, and at last saw him coming, pretending to whip his horse as if he were in earnest about the pace.

We somewhat sullenly assisted him to turn the old carriage round, and then bade him drive as hard as he could to Arc-sous-Cicon, still a long way off.

This he said he would do if he knew which was the way; but since he was last there, as a much younger man, there had been a general change in the matter of roads, and how the new ones lay he did not know.

This was not cheerful intelligence, especially as we had set our hearts upon getting back to Pontarlier in time for the evening train, which would give us a night at the charming _Bellevue_ at Neufchatel, instead of the poisonous coffee and the trying odours of the _National_: the old man's instinct, however, led him right, and we reached Arc at half-past twelve.