dangerously.  Having broken off several more, and again pulled back the others, the skittish animal consented to pass.  But in passing he bent down a very pliant bough, which, when released, flew back and hit my peaceful steed sharply on the legs.  For a few seconds his efforts to get free were—­to put it mildly—­ unpleasantly severe, especially as he became with each effort more entangled in the tree.  When the reins were at length unknotted, he quieted a little, and after being led a few yards, submitted to be mounted very peaceably, and we descended, with the fresh leaves above and below us, into Serres.  Here we had occasion to remark that “It’s a stupid foal that doesn’t know its own mother,” as one pretty little thing would persist in following our steeds, until a sturdy “paysanne” turned it back.  The correct route all this time was the upper one (or that to the left), and we now came to a very lovely bit, where two swift frothing streams dashed down beneath the trees, near a small saw-mill.  A fine view up the valley behind us, to the snow peaks towering over the ruddy hill-tops, was enjoyed, as we continued along the ascending and uneven path.  In the fields above, some shepherds were driving a flock of sheep, and a woman, reposing under a huge blue gingham, was watching the vigorous onslaught of several pigs in a small clover patch.  A few villagers, in their Sunday best, stood by the wayside discussing some topic with languid interest, which they dropped, to wish us “bon jour” and tell us the road.  More lovely effects of light and shade over the hills towards Pierrefitte, with filmy clouds shrouding the tallest summits, and here and there a glimpse of the blue sky, and we passed into the straggling hamlet of Salluz, after which the path branched up—­still to the left—­through the trees.  Winding down again, we came to Ourous, to which apparently the inhabitants from all the other villages had come, dressed in their Sunday best, to mass.  “Young men and maidens, old men and children,” women tottering with extreme age, were all assembled round about the old church, looking contented and happy, smiling, and wishing us a “bon jour” as we rode in a circular direction through the village, till we reached a spot where the road forks, the one to the right leading to Argeles, the one to the left to Lourdes.  The former looked so stony that we chose the other, and had not gone very far before a smooth and broader path to the right (from which a grand view of the whole valley opened before us) brought us down to a few houses, between which we passed, and reached the high-road.  A good trot along this, by the side of the railway line, and we were back at the hotel, convinced that the badness of the road and all drawbacks were amply—­and more than amply—­outweighed by the succession of beautiful scenery.