As she was returning to the convent after the celebration of the Te Deum, and they were passing what was called the Gate of the Prison, the drawbridge gave way and fell into the river.  It was fortunately low water, and no lives were lost.  But the Scots Guards, separated from the young Queen by the accident, took alarm, thought the whole thing had been planned, and called out:  “Treason!  Treason!” Upon which the Chevalier de Rohan, who rode near the Queen, quickly turned his horse and shouted:  “Never was Breton guilty of treason!”

And this exclamation may be considered a key-note to their character.  The Bretons, amongst their virtues, may count that of loyalty.  All is fair in love and war, it is said; but the Bretons would betray neither friend nor foe under any circumstance whatever.

For two hundred years Morlaix has known peace and repose, as far as the outer world is concerned.  She has given herself up to religious institutions, and has grown and prospered.  So it comes to pass that she is a strange mixture of new and old, and that side by side with a quaint and wonderful structure of the Middle Ages, we find a house of the present day flourishing like a green bay tree—­a testimony to prosperity, and an eyesore to the lover of antiquity.  But these wonders of the Middle Ages must gradually disappear.  As time rolls on, and those past centuries become more and more remote, the old must give place to the new; ancient buildings must fall away in obedience to the inevitable laws of time, progress and destruction.

This is especially true of Morlaix.  Much that was old-world and lovely has gone for ever, and day by day something more is disappearing.

We sallied forth, but unaccompanied by Misery, who was hard at work in the hotel, preparing us rooms wherein, as he expressed it, we should that night lodge as Christians.  Whether, last night, he had put us down as Mahometans, Fire Worshippers, or heathens of some other denomination, he did not say.

The town had lost the sense of weirdness and mystery thrown over it by the darkness.  The solemn midnight silence had given place to the activity of work and daylight; all shops were open, all houses unclosed; people were hurrying to and fro.  Our strange little procession of three was no more, and Andre carrying a flaring candle would have been anything but a picturesque object in the sunshine.

But what was lost of weirdness and mystery was more than made up by the general effect of the town, by the minute details everywhere visible, by the sense of life and movement.  Usually the little town is quiet and somewhat sleepy; to-day the inhabitants were roused out of their Breton lethargy by the presence of so many strangers amongst them, and by the fact of its being market day.