Her hand on her hip, Anglore, with a branch of the flower of the Rhone in her hand, stands on the bank waiting and smiling. Since her infancy she has come to watch these boats arriving, the great flat boats that they call sisselands on the river. Well known to all the sailors, she would exchange greetings and friendly badinage with them as they passed. And the men would throw apples and pears into her apron as she held it out to catch them. She was a familiar figure along the water-side, and bore the nickname of Anglore, the lizard, because she was always basking in the sun on the banks. But she was not idle. Assiduously she sifted with her little sieve the grains of gold that the Ardèche brought down after the rains. Her father was a pilot at the Pont St. Esprit to guide the boats past the "spurs of the treacherous buttresses." And the sailors, having passed the Trois Donzelles and the Îles Margeries, would say joyously—
"Allons, ... nous allons bientôt voir
Au Malatra papilloner l'Anglore."
And there, sure enough, she was, with her red handkerchief on her head, busy at work. And they would cry, "Ohé, has she not made her fortune, l'Anglore?"
And Anglore replies, "Aïe! pauvrette, ils n'en jettent pas tant d'or dans l'Ardèche, ces gueux de Cévennols! Mais vous passez bien vite."
"Le Rhône est fier (high) there is no stopping, belle jeunesse! But when we go up stream on our return, and the horses pull at the ropes, then we will bring you some dates."
"Bon voyage aux marins," she cries farewell.
"Adieu, Mignonne!"
And one of the crew, Jean Roche, throws her several kisses as the barge moves away. He has a tender interest in the maiden, who however has no heart to give him, for she has been fascinated by a most singular lover, the Drac, or Spirit of the Rhone who lives under the green waters and entices unwary maidens down and down to his shimmering home beneath the flood.
"Oh! lis atiramen de l'aigo blouso