“Anything else interesting ever been found here?” she wanted to know.  “Any jewels or things of that sort?”

I passed the question on to the guide.

Many things had been found, he said:  coins, vases, pottery, and mosaics.  Occasionally such things were turned up, though usually, nowadays, of no great value; but it was the hope of finding something which brought the gipsies.  Often there were gypsies at Les Baux.  They would go to Les Saintes Maries, the place of the sacred church where the two sainted Maries came ashore from Palestine in their little boat, and they would pray to Sarah, whose tomb was also in that wonderful church.  Had we seen it yet?  No?  But it was not far.  Many people went, though the great day was on May twenty-fourth, when the Archbishop of Aix lowered the ark of relics from the roof, and healed those of the sick who were true believers.  It was for Sarah, though, that the gipsies made their pilgrimages.  They thought that prayers at her tomb would bring them whatever they desired; and sometimes, when they were able to come on as far as Les Baux, they would wish at the tomb to find the buried Phoenician treasure, for which many had searched generation after generation, since history began, but none had ever found.

I did not say anything about the gipsies at the inn-window, but I saw now that Mr. Dane had done wisely in sticking to his post.  A sixty-horse-power Aigle might largely make up for a disappointment in the matter of treasure, even if she had to be towed down into the valley by a horse.

“Calve, and all the great singers, come here sometimes by moonlight in their motors,” went on the guide, “after the great musical festival of Orange in the month of August.  They stand on the piles of stone among the ruins when all is white under the moon, and they sing—­ah! but they sing!  It is wonderful.  They do it for their own pleasure, and there is no audience except the ghosts—­and me, for they allow me to listen.  Yet I think, if our eyes could be opened to such things, we would see grouped round a noble company of knights and ladies—­such a company as would be hard to get together in these days.”

“Well, I would rather sing here in August than April!” exclaimed Lady Turnour, with the air of a spoiled prima donna.  And then she shivered and wanted to go down to the car without waiting for the sunset, which, after all, could only be like any other mountain sunset, and she could see plenty of better ones next summer in Switzerland.  She felt so chilled, she was quite anxious about herself, and should certainly not dare to start for Avignon until she had had a glass of steaming hot rum punch or something of that sort, at the inn.  Did the guide think she could get it—­and have it sent out to her in the car, as nothing would induce her to go inside that little den?

The guide thought it probable that something hot might be obtained, though there might be a few minutes’ delay while the water was made to boil, as it would be an unusual order.