We were climbing the moor now, at a lopping gallop that set the packet of dolls bob-bobbing on my back to a sort of tune.  The horses behind were nearly spent, and the sweat had worked their soaped hides into a complete lather.  But the mare generalled them all the while; and striking on a cart-track beyond the second rise of the moor, slowed down to a walk, wheeled round and scanned the troop.  As they struggled up she whinnied loudly.  A whistle answered her far down the lane, and at the sound of it she was off again like a bird.

The track led down into a hollow, some acres broad, like a saucer scooped between two slopes of the moor; and in the middle of it—­just low enough to be hidden from the valley beneath—­stood a whitewashed farmhouse, with a courtlege in front and green-painted gate; and by this gate three persons watched us as we came—­a man and two women.

The man by his dress was plainly a farmer; and catching sight of me, he called out something I could not understand, and turned towards the woman beside him, whom I took to be his wife.  But the other woman, who stood some paces away, was a very different person—­tall and slight, like a lady; grey-haired, and yet not seeming old; with long white hands and tiny high-heeled shoes, and dressed in black silk, with a lace shawl crossed over her shoulders, and a silver whistle hanging from her neck.  She came forward, holding out a handful of sugar, and spoke to the mare, if you’ll believe me, in my very own Breton.

“Good Lilith!” said she.  “Ah, what a mess for me to groom!  See what a coat!  Good Lilith!” Then, as Lilith munched the sugar—­“Who are you, little boy?  I never saw you before.  Explain yourself, kindly, little boy.”

“My name is Yann,” said I; “Yann Riel.  I am from Roscoff, and—­O how tired, madame!”

“He is Breton!  He speaks the Breton!” She clapped her hands, drew me down from my seat, and kissed me on both cheeks.

“Yann, you shall sleep now—­this instant.  Tell me only how you came—­a word or two—­that I may repeat to the farmer.”

So I did my best, and told her about the run, and the dragoons on the beach, and how I came on Lilith’s back.

“Wonderful, wonderful!  But how came she to allow you?”

“That I know not, madame.  But when I spoke to her she was quiet at once.”

“In the Breton—­you spoke in the Breton?  Yes, yes, that explains—­I taught her.  Dear Lilith!” She patted the mare’s neck, and broke off to clap her hands again and interpret the tale to the farmer and his wife; and the farmer growled a bit, and then they all began to laugh.

“He says you are a ‘rumgo,’ and you had better be put to bed.  But the packet on your back—­your night-shirt, I suppose?  You have managed it all so complete, Yann!” And she laughed merrily.

“It holds fifteen little wooden dolls,” said I, “jointed at the knees and elbows; and they cost two sols apiece.”