(5226 ft.) and the Ordincede rearing above them.  Looking in the direction of Bigorre, we could see on our right the trees fringing the hills above Gerde, and known as the Palomieres; and slightly to the left Lourdes and its lake, with the entrance to the Argeles valley further round in the same direction and close to the wooded hill known as the Castel Mouly (3742 ft.).  The Tapere (a small stream) flows from this last-named hill into a narrow glen, on the left side of which Madame Cottin wrote the “Exiles of Siberia.”  The hill above, known as “Mont Bedat,” and surmounted with a statue of the Virgin, is a favourite walk from the town, the ascent for a moderate walker taking about forty-five minutes.

After twenty minutes to enjoy this panorama we began the descent on the Castel-Mouly side, and were very soon forced to make short and sometimes slippery cuts, to avoid the banks of snow lying in the path.  We easily managed to strike the proper path again, however, and soon found ourselves at our “luncheon plateau.”  We now bore along to the left, finding several large gentians, and gradually, by dint of short cuts, we reached the Croix de Manse—­a plateau where four roads meet.  Taking the one leading from the Bedat, we were soon deposited at the hotel in safety.

The ladies were inexpressibly glad to give up their donkeys, and Miss Leonards considered her experiences so bitter as to wish them to be handed down to posterity under the title of

“THE LADY’S FAREWELL TO HER ASININE STEED.”

  My donkey steed! my donkey steed! that standest slyly by,
  With thy ill-combed mane and patchy neck—­thy brown and
    cunning eye,
  I will not mount the Monne’s height, or tread the gentle
    mead
  Upon thy back again:  oh slow and wretched donkey steed!

  The sun may rise, the sun may set, but ne’er again on thee,
  Will I repeat the sorry ride from which at length I’m free;
  I’d sooner walk ten thousand times, though walking would
    be vain,
  Than ever mount, my donkey steed, upon thy back again.

  Perchance in nightmare’s fitful dreams thou’lt amble into
    sight,
  Perchance once more thy cunning eye will turn on me its
    light. 
  Again I’ll raise my parasol—­in vain—­to make thee speed,
  A parasol is nought to thee, my wretched donkey steed.

  ’Twas only when at my request some kindly hand would
    chide,
  Or sharply thrust a pointed stick against thy shaggy side,
  That the slow blood that in thee runs would quicken once
    again,
  For though my parasol I broke, my efforts still were vain.

  Did I ill use thee?  Surely not! such things could never be! 
  Although thou wentest slowest when I fain would haste to
    tea. 
  Creeping at snail’s pace only—­while I couldn’t make thee
    learn
  That donkeys’ legs were never made to stop at ev’ry turn.