One mile further there is another fine sight, though not of the comprehensive beauty of that just mentioned.  This one doubtless is not worth seeing in mid-summer, when the sun has dried up the mountain streams, but when we passed that way we could see from the very summit of the hill—­above which the pointed Pic de Laruns reared its crest—­a mass of foam issuing from between two rocks, no puny meandering streamlet, but a strong torrent, which, as it dashed from rock to rock, gathered strength and velocity till it rushed amid a cloud of spray into the river below.

[Illustration:  CRABE BRIDGE, IN THE EAUX CHAUDES GORGE.]

We saw one or two gentlemen—­evidently early visitors like ourselves—­anxiously whipping the river for fish, but they caught nothing; in fact, they told us afterwards that it was done with hardly any hopes of catching, since the “professional”—­save the name—­element came out with rods and nets, so that if the rods didn’t answer they could net the pools instead.  It seemed to us a remarkably good thing that “professionals” can’t do the same in England!

There is another lovely scene not half a mile away from the town, where a path leads from the road to the riverside.  There is a plot of green-sward here, and a grove of trees; and the river passes under a bridge, that vibrates with the force of the torrent surging against its rocky base.  The path over the bridge leads through the leafy glades on the heights that overlook the river, and the town may be regained by crossing another bridge higher up.

Soon after, we were entering Eaux Chaudes (271/2 miles), and having passed the Hotel de France on the left, and the gardens and bathing establishment on the right, we drove up to the Hotel Baudot and were courteously received by Madame.

It appeared that we had arrived a day too late, as the marriage of Madame’s niece with the hotel chef had been celebrated the day before, and wonderful festivities had taken place in their honour; while the guests in the hotel (fortunately not more than eight in number) had been regaled with champagne and many choice dishes.

While waiting for dinner we strolled about on the terrace, opening out of the dining-room and overlooking the river.  It did not need the boxes of bright flowers that lined the terrace sides to entice us there, but they certainly added to the delightful picture of river and trees; and as one face reminds us of another, so this scene carried our memory back to another, but a more lovely one even, because the beauty of the trees was heightened by large bushes of azaleas—­bright with various-coloured blooms—­growing between.  But beauty and comfort do not always go together, and for calm enjoyment this Pyrenean scene had the preference; for the other was in the heart of Japan, at the tiny village of Sakurazawa, and we gazed on the picture through the open shoji, [Footnote:  Sliding screens, being frames of wood pasted over