“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 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 discolored oaken table, nodding good-day to Marianne Bruyere, 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 Quimperle 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—­” began the girl, but I raised my hand and held up the glass.

“It’s due to himself.  To your happiness, Marianne”; and I took a hearty draught of the schist.  “Now,” said I, “tell me where I can find Le Bihan and Max Fortin.”

“Monsieur Le Bihan and Monsieur Fortin are above in the broad room.  I believe they are examining the Red Admiral’s effects.”

“To send them to Paris?  Oh, I know.  May I go up, Marianne?”

“And God go with you,” smiled the girl.

When I knocked at the door of the broad room above little Max Fortin opened it.  Dust covered his spectacles and nose; his hat, with the tiny velvet ribbons fluttering, was all awry.