They halted before noon on the north bank of the Loir, in a level meadow with lines of poplars running this way and that, and filling all the place with the soft shimmer of leaves.

Blue succory, tiny mirrors of the summer sky, flecked the long grass, and the women picked bunches of them, or, Italian fashion, twined the blossoms in their hair.

A road ran across the meadow to a ferry, but the ferryman, alarmed by the aspect of the party, had conveyed his boat to the other side and hidden himself.
Presently Madame St.Lo espied the boat, clapped her hands and must have it.

The poplars threw no shade, the flies teased her, the life of a hermit--in a meadow--was no longer to her taste.
"Let us go on the water!" she cried.

"Presently you will go to bathe, Monsieur, and leave us to grill!" "Two livres to the man who will fetch the boat!" Count Hannibal cried.
In less than half a minute three men had thrown off their boots, and were swimming across, amid the laughter and shouts of their fellows.