top forming a part of the cliff beside it, but one night towards the close of the seventeenth century, an aerolite fell on the top of the rock, and changed it in a moment to its present monolithic condition. Some years later, Louis XIV. ordered the opening below to be extensively widened to admit the freer passage of his troops and their artillery waggons from Dinant. The isolated rock stands up in such abrupt grandeur that one seems to expect to hear that either a convulsion of nature or man's handiwork has been instrumental in producing this singular chasm.

The view from this point of the junction of the two rivers is delightful. The Meuse curves to the right, and takes its winding way round a green meadow, sprinkled with some of the houses of Anseremme. The old bridge of St. Jean spans the meeting of the Lesse and the Meuse, but we leave it on our right, and drive along a high green bank beside the Lesse. The road is narrow, and last year a sad accident happened at this very spot. Once a month there is a pig market in Dinant, to which old women bring their struggling squeaking piglings, in bags over their shoulders. The miller of Walzin and his wife had been into town to buy pigs at the market, and were driving home with their bargains. Just as they passed the bridge of Anseremme, one of the pigs

in the cart set up a loud squealing, the horse took fright, shied, and then plunged down the steep bank into the river, and the miller and his wife were both drowned.

Anseremme is a pretty little village, and the inn calls itself Le Repos des Artistes. It is a favourite resort of Belgian painters, and we were told that living is very cheap there.

We are now in the valley of the Lesse, which quickly becomes more and more beautiful. It is narrow, and the high cliffs which shut it in are richly wooded. Sometimes the view closes at each end, and through a screen of poplars we see the murmuring river, green and dim with the shadows of the woods.

The road becomes so narrow, between the high hedge tasselled with wild rose sprays on the left, and the tall poplars on the right, that we stop and take our faithful follower Jim into the carriage, lest he should get under the horses' feet. Jim is a very handsome black and tan dachshund, who seems quite at home everywhere. He belongs to our friend, and like his master he is everybody's favourite.

Presently we reach a ford, for the mill of Walzin, to which we are bound, lies across the Lesse, but the rain has so swollen the river, that the water forces its way

through the closed doors into the carriage, and we have to tuck up our feet on to the seats to escape a wetting. Our driver looks behind him at our outcry, and shrugs his shoulders.

"Ça ne fait rien," he says, " il y a une éponge."

So when we are across we get out while the floor is dried, glad of the chance of helping ourselves to the wild blossoms around us. Then we cross a meadow, and very soon reach the mill, a quaint stone building under the cliffs of Walzin, with a broad weir in front of it, over which the water rushes foaming into the birchbordered pond below. We went along a narrow path to the end of the weir. A punt was moored here, but the river beyond looked black and swollen, and our driver had told us we should not be able to go on the water.

We all, however, got into the punt, and sometimes by help of a long pole, or, where the water was too deep, by help of a broad wooden paddle, we glided along under the shadow of the lofty perpendicular cliff of Walzin. Now the cliff turns, and we move round its base on the smooth dark stream that circles it. The stillness is very weird and solemn as we glide through the black glassy water. "It is not known how deep the water is," says our boatman, pointing with his wooden paddle;