CHAPTER III.
THE ROAD TO PARIS.
The sun had not yet risen above the hills when we three with a single servant behind us drew rein at the end of the valley; and easing our horses on the ascent, turned in the saddle to take a last look at Caylus--at the huddled grey town, and the towers above it.

A little thoughtful we all were, I think.

The times were rough and our errand was serious.

But youth and early morning are fine dispellers of care; and once on the uplands we trotted gaily forward, now passing through wide glades in the sparse oak forest, where the trees all leaned one way, now over bare, wind-swept downs; or once and again descending into a chalky bottom, where the stream bubbled through deep beds of fern, and a lonely farmhouse nestled amid orchards.
Four hours' riding, and we saw below us Cahors, filling the bend of the river.

We cantered over the Vallandre Bridge, which there crosses the Lot, and so to my uncle's house of call in the square.