The river passes quietly below the town, slowly along the wide, still valley.
The River
I know why the river goes so slowly, lingering as much as ever she can, and a little sadly.
It is because just here she leaves behind her youth and wildness of great mountains, her mood of snows and rocks, cascade and woods and high rough pastures, cow-bells and mountain-horn. Going down into the classic countries, infinitely old, those deep, rich countries, she passes here, between the high clear lift and lilt and thrill of mountain music and the cadenced melody of Provence.
The old Estampe
There is an old print in the library of the castle, that shows the town, her hill become a mighty mountain, the river a terrific flood, the castle guns emitting huge neat clouds of smoke upon the army of Savoy. You see the army of Savoy, in plumes and velvet cloaks, withdrawing upon prancing steeds, and the lords of the town issuing forth from the Roman gate with bugles and banners.
They were gorgeous, gallant little wars that the sons of the town rode out to in those days.
The Dépôt d'Eclopés
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