Presently a steeple rose among the trees; we crossed a stubble-field, climbed to the top of a ditch and caught a glimpse of a few of dwellings: the village of Pomelin.

A rough road constitutes the main street and the village consists of several houses separated by yards.

What tranquillity! or rather what forlornness! The thresholds are deserted; the yards are empty.
Where are the inhabitants?
One would think that they had all left the village to lie in wait behind the furze-bushes to catch a glimpse of the _Blues_ who are about to pass through the ravine.
The church is poor and perfectly bare.

No beautiful painted saints, no pictures on the walls or on the roof, no hanging lamp oscillating at the end of a long, straight cord.

In a corner of the choir, a wick was burning in a glass filled with oil.