“They are great sportsmen,” she added with a smile, “and you know we Bretons do nothing by halves.  Our sportsmen are fierce and strong in the chase, and know nothing of the effeminate pastimes of those who live in more southern latitudes.”

Then, to do us honour, and because she thought it would interest us, she showed us through some of the reception rooms, magnificent with tapestry and carved oak and dark panelling, and family portraits of bygone generations, when people were taken as shepherds and shepherdesses, and the world was a real Arcadia; and everywhere were trophies of the chase.  And, conducting us up an ancient oak staircase to a large recess looking to the back, there our dazzled vision saw another garden stretched out before us, longer, broader, than the paradise in front, full of roses and lilies, and a countless number of fruit trees.

“That is my orchard,” she said; “but I must have flowers everywhere, and so, all down the borders my lilies and roses scent the air; and there I walk and try to make my old age beautiful and contented, as every old age ought to be.  My young days were passed at Court; my later years in this quiet seclusion, out of the world.  Alas! there is no more Court for old or young.”

Then again we descended into a salon so polished that you could trace your features on the parquet flooring; a room that would have dignified a monarch; a room where everything was old-fashioned and beautiful, subdued and refined; and our hostess, pointing to lovely old chairs covered with tapestry that had been worked a century-and-a-half ago, touched a bell and insisted upon our refreshing ourselves with some wine of the country and a cake peculiar to St. Pol de Leon.  It is probable that H.C.’s poetical eyes and ethereal countenance, whilst captivating her heart, had suggested a dangerous delicacy of constitution.  These countenances, however, are deceptive; it is often your robust and florid people who fail to reach more than the stage of early manhood.

In response to the bell there entered a Breton maid with cake and wine on a silver tray.  She was youthful and comely, and wore a picturesque Breton cap with mysterious folds, the like of which we had seen neither in Morlaix nor in St. Pol de Leon.  As far as the latter town was concerned it was not surprising, since we had met so few of the inhabitants.

[Illustration:  HOUSE IN WHICH THE YOUNG PRETENDER TOOK REFUGE AFTER THE BATTLE OF CULLODEN, ROSCOFF.]

The maid curtsied on entering, placed the tray upon the table, curtsied again to her mistress, and withdrew.  All was done in absolute silence:  the silence of a well-bred domestic and a perfectly organised household.  She moved as if her feet had been encased in down.

With her own fair and kindly hands, the Comtesse poured out the red and sparkling liquid, and, breaking the cake, once more bade us welcome.

We would rather have been excused; such hospitality to strangers was so rare, excepting in remote places where the customs of the primitive ages still existed.  But hospitality so gracefully and graciously offered had to be met with graciousness and gratitude in return.