river lines of poplars, which sometimes grew more thickly, forming little green woods. Above the church, on a hill, appeared the remains of a castle in the line of the ruined wall.
I sat down on one of the benches to consider the scenery and the silent town. The notes of a cornet broke the silence; they too were sad, comically sad. Sitting there, I did not see two men who were walking in my direction. One of them, with a white beard, leaned on his stick as he walked and looked with sad eyes on the white and reddish mountains which stood out in the distance against the clear blue radiant sky. The other, clean-shaven, held his hat in his hand; he was gesticulating, smiling and talking to himself. He appeared to find this conversation with himself very amusing. They came close to where I was and leaned on the balustrade of the balcony that formed part of the church. I saluted them and to the sad one, since it was he who had looked at me the more attentively, I said: "There seems to be but little life in this town?" He agreed and smiled sadly.
"Labraz," he said, after much other talk, "was formerly an important city with a large number of inhabitants. From its hill it dominated the valley; it owned the cornland and pasture and the hill-sides over which the thyme in spring spreads its purple carpet. From the ruined castle yonder the wall descended, clasping the town in its half affectionate, half threatening embrace. We had as
