Returning to the river, your eye wanders far down the stream, until a large building upon its banks arrests your attention.  It looks the emblem and abode of peace; perhaps is so.  It is the ancient Couvent des Cordeliers, founded by Jean de Rohan, in 1488.  But monks no longer tread its corridors and offer up the midnight mass in its small chapel.  It is now occupied by ladies—­les Dames du Calvaire, as they are called.  If the monks were to arise from their little graveyard, would they rush back horrified and affrighted at such desecration? and if the walls had voices, would they, too, be ungallant enough to cry “To such base uses do we come?” The ancient convent of the Ursulines has been turned into a Penitentiary, thus in a measure fulfilling its original destiny.

Not far from Landerneau, also, on the banks of the Elorn, is the Avenue of the Chateau de la Joyeuse Garde, celebrated as being the rendezvous of King Arthur and the Knights of the Round Table.  Nothing now remains but the ruins of a subterranean vault and a romantic Gothic Gateway of the twelfth century, covered with ivy and creeping shrubs.  The whole surroundings are beautiful and romantic; undulations, here wooded and rocky, there richly cultivated; laughing and fertile slopes running down into warm and sheltered valleys, through which the river winds its graceful course.

Having made a slight acquaintance with the old streets and ancient houses, we went back to the inn, where we found the carriage ready to take us to le Folgoet.

A strong wind had suddenly arisen and clouds of dust accompanied us.  Under ordinary circumstances the drive would have been pleasant, though uneventful.  The road is somewhat monotonous, and very little attracts the attention beyond small, well-wooded estates, breaking in upon the long stretches of richly cultivated country, where life ought to run in a very even tenor.

After awhile we turned into a by-road, and presently descending between high hedges, the object of our excursion suddenly and unexpectedly opened up before our astonished vision.

It would be difficult to forget the effect of that first view of le Folgoet.  The high hedges on either side had concealed everything.  These fell away, and within a few yards of us, in a barren and dreary plain uprose the wonderful church.

A few poor houses and cottages comprise the village, and here nearly a thousand inhabitants manage to stow themselves away.  But nothing strikes you more in these Breton villages than their silent and apparently deserted condition, even at midday.  Nine times out of ten, there is scarcely a creature to be seen in the streets, the house doors are for the most part closed, no face peers curiously from the windows, and no sound breaks upon the stillness of the air.

So was it to-day.  The tramp of our horses, the rumbling of wheels alone startled the silence as we approached the church.  The small houses forming the village in no way took from its grandeur or interfered with its solitude and solemnity.