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Once there I led them at a trot along the white, dusty track. We were in the angle formed by the Mable and the Veude, and here, where Poitou slopes towards the sea, the country still retains, with a roughness like unto that of Auvergne, all the freshness of La Marche. Far south was a dreary plain, but around us the land billowed into low hillocks, that stood over long stretches of stunted forest.
We crossed the river by the ferry between Auche and Rivière, where the little Veude falls into the Vienne, and halted for a space on a bluff to survey the landscape. At this hour of the morning, with the air so gay, the sky so blue, and the sun so bright, the lights were still soft enough to allow the whole beauty of the scene to be strongly felt.
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