Our guide in a most “gallant” manner got off his steed to gather Miss Blunt a few flowers, but when he endeavoured to assume his former elevated position, the “Arab” didn’t see it.  In fact he would not be mounted, and the unevenness of the track added not a little to the success of his manoeuvrings.  “Luis” had not been six months a “jockey” for nothing, however; so he lulled his steed into a sense of security by walking beside it for some time in circus fashion, with his right hand grasping the off side of the saddle, until a large stone showed its head at the side of the road.  As they passed, he ran up the stone and was in the saddle before the animal realised that he was beaten, and when he did, it seemed to humble him to that degree that he never attempted even a curvet.

The number of lizards we disturbed was something wonderful.  None of them were very large or very striking in colour, but they made up for this in animation; and their fearful trepidity and hurry to get anywhere out of sight was wonderful.

Just before entering the sunlit beech glades we overtook a noble cavalcade, consisting of three ladies on three donkeys, with a fat old woman leading the way on foot.  They had their lunch with them, and apparently intended—­judging by a certain hungry look they had—­to make their repast at the earliest opportunity.  The young and beautiful lady bringing up the rear was probably ignorant of the ludicrous figure she made with her “ultra” fashionable arrangement of steels, that gave her the appearance of having a large clothes-bag under her dress, or we don’t think she would have started on the excursion in such a garment.  If a member of the “Rational Dress Society” had seen her, there would probably have been an “exhibition” on the spot, and a general one—­with all the latest “improvements” (?)—­at Luchon a few weeks later.

After traversing a number of beautiful glades we entered the Firs—­the Black Forest as it is called,—­where bears are hunted in the winter, and through which the road ascends by a series of zigzags to the summit of the Col de Portillon (4275 ft.), and then descends for a short distance to the frontier, marked by a huge boulder, with the French flag on one side and the Spanish on the other.  As we reined in the horses opposite to it for a moment, no one could dispute that we were indeed “’twixt France and Spain.”  But we did not stay to enjoy this enviable position long; and passing on, endeavoured to realise that we were no longer in France by fixing our eyes on the Pyrenees Orientales; we could also see the Poujastou (6332 ft.) on our left, the Couradilles (6513 ft.), the Mont Segu, the Cecire, [Footnote:  We had only our guide’s authority for these names] and further forward the Entecade on our right.  A short distance down the road there lay the Casino du Portillon, not yet opened for the summer gambling, and not very much further (viz., about a mile from the frontier), the Spanish custom-house, and the Casino de Roulette.  Here the road divides, the branch to the Vallee d’Aran and Bosost bearing to the left, and the other, to Viella and the Artiques-Tellin, in the opposite direction.