The Messenger | Page 8

the cliff yonder?"
"He dropped the de, and the Trevecs since then have been Republicans," said Lys--"all except me."
"That's quite right," said I; "it is time that we Republicans should agree upon some feudal system. My dear, I drink to the king!" and I raised my wine-glass and looked at Lys.
"To the king," said Lys, flushing. She smoothed out the tiny garment on her knees; she touched the glass with her lips; her eyes were very sweet. I drained the glass to the king.
After a silence I said: "I will tell the king stories. His Majesty shall be amused."
"His Majesty," repeated Lys softly.
"Or hers," I laughed. "Who knows?"
"Who knows?" murmured Lys, with a gentle sigh.
"I know some stores about Jack the Giant-Killer," I announced. "Do you, Lys?"
"I? No, not about a giant-killer, but I know all about the were-wolf, and Jeanne-la-Flamme, and the Man in Purple Tatters, and--O dear me! I know lots more."
"You are very wise," said I. "I shall reach his Majesty English."
"And I Breton," cried Lys jealously.
"I shall bring playthings to the king," said I--"big green lizards from the gorse, little gray mullets to swim in glass globes, baby rabbits from the forest of Kerselec--"
"And I," said Lys, "will bring the first primrose, the first branch of aubepine, the first jonquil, to the king--my king."
"Our king," said I; and there was peace in Finisteì€re.
I lay back, idly turning the leaves of the curious old volume.
"I am looking," said I, "for the crest."
"The crest, dear? It is a priest's head with an arrow-shaped mark on the forehead, on a field--"
I sat up and stared at my wife.
"Dick, whatever is the matter?" she smiled. "The story is there in that book. Do you care to read it? No? Shall I tell it to you? Well, then: It happened in the third crusade. There was a monk whom men called the Black Priest. He turned apostate, and sold himself to the enemies of Christ. A Sieur de Trevec burst into the Saracen camp, at the head of only one hundred lances, and carried the Black Priest away out of the very midst of their army."
"So that is how you come by the crest," I said quietly; but I thought of the branded skull in the gravel pit, and wondered.
"Yes," said Lys. "The Sieur de Trevec cut the Black Priest's head off, but first he branded him with an arrow mark on the forehead. The book says it was a pious action, and that the Sieur de Trevec got great merit by it. But I think it was cruel, the branding," she sighed.
"Did you ever hear of any other Black Priest?"
"Yes. There was one in the last century, here in St. Gildas. He cast a white shadow in the sun. He wrote in the Breton language. Chronicles, too, I believe. I never saw them. His name was the same as that of the old chronicler, and of the other priest, Jacques Sorgue. Some said he was a lineal descendant of the traitor. Of course the first Black Priest was bad enough for anything. But if he did have a child, it need not have been the ancestor of the last Jacques Sorgue. They say this one was a holy man. They say he was so good he was not allowed to die, but was caught up to heaven one day," added Lys, with believing eyes.
I smiled.
"But he disappeared," persisted Lys.
"I'm afraid his journey was in another direction," I said jestingly, and thoughtlessly told her the story of the morning. I had utterly forgotten the masked man at her window, but before I finished I remembered him fast enough, and realized what I had done as I saw her face whiten.
"Lys," I urged tenderly, "that was only some clumsy clown's trick. You said so yourself. You are not superstitious, my dear?"
Her eyes were on mine. She slowly drew the little gold cross from her bosom and kissed it. But her lips trembled as they pressed the symbol of faith.
III
About nine o'clock the next morning I walked into the Groix Inn and sat down at the long discoloured oaken table, nodding good-day to Marianne Bruyeì€re, who in turn bobbed her white coiffe at me.
"My clever Bannalec maid," said I, "what is good for a stirrup-cup at the Groix Inn?"
"Schist?" she inquired in Breton.
"With a dash of red wine, then," I replied.
She brought the delicious Quimperleì cider, and I poured a little Bordeaux into it. Marianne watched me with laughing black eyes.
"What makes your cheeks so red, Marianne?" I asked. "Has Jean Marie been here?"
"We are to be married, Monsieur Darrel," she laughed.
"Ah! Since when has Jean Marie Tregunc lost his head?"
"His head? Oh, Monsieur Darrel--his heart, you mean!"
"So I do," said I. "Jean Marie is a practical fellow."
"It is all due to your kindness--"