‘Well, it so chanced that as the countess sat at her window one evening, as usual, watching the sun go down, she beheld a palmer coming slowly along up the causeway, leaning on his staff, and seeming sorely tired and weary——
‘But see,’ cried Laura, at this moment, as we gained the crest of a gentle acclivity, ‘yonder is Bouvigne; it is a fine thing even yet.’
We both reined in our horses, the better to enjoy the prospect; and certainly it was a grand one. Behind us, and stretching for miles in either direction, was the great forest we had been traversing; the old Ardennes had been a forest in the times of Caesar, its narrow pathways echoing to the tread of Roman legions. In front was a richly cultivated plain, undulating gently towards the Meuse, whose silver current wound round it like a garter—the opposite bank being formed by an abrupt wall of naked rocks of grey granite, sparkling with its brilliant hues, and shining doubly in the calm stream at its foot. On one of the highest cliffs, above an angle of the river, and commanding both reaches of the stream for a considerable way, stood Bouvigne. Two great square towers rising above a battlemented wall, pierced with long loopholes, stood out against the clear sky; one of them, taller than the other, was surmounted by a turret at the angle, from the top of which something projected laterally, like a beam.
‘Do you see that piece of timber yonder?’ said Laura. ‘Yes,’ said I; ‘it’s the very thing I’ve been looking at, and wondering what it could mean.’
‘Carry your eye downward,’ said she, ‘and try if you can’t make out a low wall connecting two masses of rock together, far, far down: do you see it?’
‘I see a large archway, with some ivy over it.’ ‘That’s it; that was the great entrance to the schloss; before it is the fosse—a huge ditch cut in the solid rock, so deep as to permit the water of the Meuse, when flooded, to flow into it. Well, now, if you look again, you ‘ll see that the great beam above hangs exactly over that spot. It was one of the rude defences of the time, and intended, by means of an iron basket which hung from its extremity, to hurl great rocks and stones upon any assailant. The mechanism can still be traced by which it was moved back and loaded; the piece of rope which opened the basket at each discharge of its contents was there not many years ago. There’s a queer, uncouth representation of the panier de la mort, as it is called, in the Chronique, which you can see in the old library at Rochepied. But here we are already at the ferry.’
As she spoke we had just reached the bank of the Meuse, and in front was a beautifully situated little village, which, escarped in the mountain, presented a succession of houses at different elevations, all looking towards the stream. They were mostly covered with vines and honeysuckles, and with the picturesque outlines of gable and roof, diamond windows and rustic porches, had a very pleasing effect.
As I looked, I had little difficulty in believing that they were not a very equestrian people—the little pathways that traversed their village being inaccessible save to foot-passengers, frequently ascending by steps cut in the rock, or by rude staircases of wood which hung here and there over the edge of the cliff in anything but a tempting way, the more so, as they trembled and shook with every foot that passed over them. Little mindful of this, the peasants might now be seen leaning over their frail barriers, and staring at the unwonted apparition of two figures on horseback, while I was endeavouring, by signs and gestures, to indicate our wish to cross over.
At last a huge raft appeared to move from beneath the willows of the opposite bank, and by the aid of a rope fastened across the stream two men proceeded slowly to ferry the great platform over. Leading our horses cautiously forward, we embarked in this frail craft, and landed safely in Bouvigne.