As I ascended the opposite hill a still deeper ravine came into view,
wooded down to the water and all in dark shadow, except a rocky ridge
facing the sinking sun and bathed in warm light.
When the top of the hill had been reached, an old man, who wore a large and
very weather-beaten felt hat, was sitting on the step of a wayside cross
with a flock of geese feeding around him. Next I passed a bare-footed
_cantonnier_ breaking stones, and he told me that if I made
haste I might reach Neuvic before dark. On the outskirts of a
village--Roche-le-Peyroux--a wandering tinker and his boy were at work
by the side of the road with fire and bellows, and I felt a trampish or
romantic desire to stay with them awhile in the cheerful glow; but thinking
of the coming night, I smothered the impulse.
Upon the moor which I was now traversing was a very old stone cross, upon
which the figure of the Saviour was rudely carved in relief. The form was
so uncouth as to be scarcely human. The head was half as wide again as the
space across the shoulders, and the hands were nearly as large as the head.
How many centuries ago did Christian piety raise this rough image of its
hope upon the moors amidst the purple heather and the yellow broom?
The road crossed another stream not far from the spot where it fell into
the Dordogne.
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