YVES PENGAVEREC was ill at heart.

      It was but an hour ago that old Mathurin, his foster-father, had dispelled the dream-cloud which had hovered like a glorious nimbus about the young man's head for close on three years past. Ay, and had dispelled it roughly enough, too — the grim, sour old man — without a trace of tenderness or remorse, with only a crease of amusement across his withered chops and a cackle of anger rising in his shrill voice.

      "What! Thee marry Anne?" he had rasped. "Go on with thy work, my son, and blow thyself sober. The cider has been too strong for thee. Thee marry Anne? Why, she's but a chick; and thee — thee a great hulking loon that is indebted to me for every morsel of ryebread that goes into thy great mouth! — thee that I have reared out of charity, only at the bidding of my sainted wife — the Blessed Virgin be her helper! Thee marry Anne? Show me thy pouch with twenty gold pieces in its bottom, and I will say ay; but — till then. Go on with thy hoeing, lad, and talk sense." And so the old man had hobbled off down the sun-browned slope of the field, tittering.

      It was a cruel blow to Yves Pengaverec. It shattered his hopes, his happiness, his very life and reason so thought the swarthy, wild-eyed young peasant as he clutched his strong hands on the top of the well-used hoe, and dug his chin into the knuckles of them. It was unjust, mean, brutal. And yet it was so true.

      What was he — an alien, a nameless stranger, whose very face betrayed him no true Breton, but a native of the South — what was he, to look up to Anne Pengaverec, the daughter of the wealthiest peasant in all the valley of Polniac? Ay, the wealthiest; for had not Mathurin Pengaverec two broad fields of rye, and a cow of his own on the common pasturage, and a cottage of hewn granite, when none of the others dwelt in more than hovels of baked mud? Yet this same Mathurin had adopted him almost as a son, and had reared him, when he might have suffered him to starve and become food for the kites on the desolate landes. There was gratitude due for that, to be sure; though the old man need not have blurted it so coarsely.

      It was twenty years ago that it had happened; but Yves had not forgotten. Twenty years ago in this very month of September Mathurin Pengaverec — then a middle-aged widower, with his young wife but one week buried in the little hillside cemetery of the chapel of St Gildas — had been tramping home from the market at Pontivy with his baskets over his arm, and his thoughts running on the little month-old baby girl whom he had left with a neighbour that morning when he started for Pontivy; and he had turned aside, as the harvest-moon crept over the edge of the lande, to do a reverence at the foot of the crucifix which surmounted the lonely menhir on the crest of the heath — the great granite menhir that had once been a heathen giant, so they said, whom St Gildas himself had stricken into stone with that token of Christendom on his brow. And as Mathurin Pengaverec had drawn nearer to the menhir, he had seen a figure, which he took to be one of the market-women, prostrated at the foot of the stone; but the figure never stirred. Then he saw that the clothing was not that of a Bretonne; and he had touched the arms that were clasped around the rough stone, and they were cold and stiff; and the dusky face — the dusky, rounded face of a Southern woman — was rigid in death. And beneath the crouching figure, laid, as it were, in the shelter of the crucifix, sprawled a sturdy four-year-old boy, whimpering in a strange tongue.

      Mathurin Pengaverec was a God-fearing man. He had led the frightened child back to Polniac, and made a comfortable bed of straw for him in the shed where the cow lay. And on the morrow the neighbours had set forth, and buried the body of the stranger woman — the wandering outcast of whose faith and origin naught was known — decently at the foot of the great granite menhir in the midst of the landes. And there their care had ended. But in the night a vision had come to Mathurin Pengaverec. His dead wife had appeared to him and bidden him bring up the boy as his own, to be a brother to the motherless babe Anne; and Mathurin had obeyed the bidding unquestioningly, though his inner self grumbled.

      It had not turned out such a bad business for him after all, he had confessed later on. The little mother had been right; a second pair of hands was not amiss in the fields. And so the boy had grown up, and fallen in with Breton ways and the Breton tongue, and been endowed by common assent with the name of Yves Pengaverec — his own being unknown. Of late, as years and stiffness had crept over the older man, the harder part of the field-work had fallen to the lot of Yves, and he had bargained for a wage; but Mathurin was grown close and grumbling with age, and the wage was pitifully small.

      Twenty good gold pieces in his pouch, had he said? Blessed Mary! how was that to be done? Two golden napoleons, indeed, he had had — scraped and starved and hoarded out of his meagre pay — until the Pardon of St Gildas last gone; and then one of the twain had melted away. There had been a kerchief for Anne, that she might go smart on the fête-day, and a taper to be burned at the shrine of the good saint in memory of his mother, and a new felt hat — broad and sweeping enough to strike defeat into the hearts of all the other lads — for himself. And so there was but one gold piece left. Nineteen more to be got before he could have Anne! Merciful Father! How?

      And Anne — smiling, teasing, tantalising Anne! Would she wait? Would she wait until the gray began to come in her tossing black hair, and the crow's-feet lined her soft cheeks, and the passing-by of years had dulled the ardour of his wooing? Would she wait while he hoarded together these accursed nineteen napoleons? Or would she give herself to another? The tyrant, the worse than tyrant, to make this cruel condition! — this condition that he knew to be hopeless, impossible. A tyrant, look you, whom he had worked for all these years with all his strength, like a slave! But he would work no longer.

      The Southern birth-passions of Yves Pengaverec had come uppermost. His body shook; he gnawed fiercely at the knuckles of his hands as they lay clenched on the handle of the hoe; his eyes sparkled with a quick anger. He would get the cursed money — somehow; and then he would come back and claim Anne from the old man. And meantime, away with this slow-coach work! He must think — think; and there was nothing like a cup of cider to think upon.

      Yves flung down his tool, and strode unsteadily across the scorched stubble-field. He leaped over the high mud-fence into the sunken cart-rut which formed the only highway through the valley of Polniac, and descended its rugged length. At the bottom — close to the spot where the tumbling Scorff, dwindled by the drought, crawled beneath a rude stone bridge — stood the old auberge "Aux Chouans," the crazy hovel that sufficed to dispense refreshment to man and beast in the remote valley of Polniac. A couple of unkempt fellows were sprawling on the wooden bench before the house; and they growled a surly greeting as Yves stumbled to the bench beside them and called for a cup of cider.

      This cider was capital. It put heart into a man, and courage, and wits. Only nineteen napoleons, after all. Twas not much. And then — Anne ! But how to get them? One must think — think — think. Another cup of cider and the thought will come.

      The sharp-visaged, slatternly landlady put the second cup of cider in his hands; and then she paused.

      "'Tis not often we see thee here, Yves Pengaverec," she commented.

      He grunted something, and took a deep draught.

      "I suppose a night's trudge across the landes would not be to thy liking?" the woman continued hesitatingly. "A courting-walk with thy maid is all you young men can think on."

      He looked up sharply, and asked her what she meant.

      "It will mean money in thy pocket," she nodded shrewdly.

      "Ah!"

      "'Tis nothing but a jaunt to Loudéac or so," she explained; "and the pay will be for thee to fix. A traveller — an English sea-going man from the coast, wandered from his road — called here but an hour ago with his horse foundered. He had ridden it as if our Breton lanes were the Royal Road itself — the fool! He must needs get to Loudéac, says he, in time for the morning's diligence; and, as there be no horses here at his disposal, he must take a guide. See you?"

      "And he will pay?"

      "Aha, my child! — he will pay. He is but now in the guest-room, swilling wine like cider and throwing about his gold pieces as if he were made of them."

      "I will go, my mother."

      The chance had not been long in coming. He knew that it would not be long. He would get a whole napoleon, perhaps — perhaps two — for his night's work; a mere tramp of forty kilomètres across the landes, little more than the journey to Pontivy on market-day. Why, this was something better than the slave's work which he had been used to doing!

      "Best have an eye to the weather, mate; there's a pretty storm brewing." This from the rougher of the two peasants on the bench beside him, growling and pointing to the evening sky.

      The woman turned upon him fiercely.

      "Hold thy tongue, Daoulaz!" she screamed. "I dare say the job would have fitted thee better — eh? 'Tis likely I would have asked an ugly fellow like thee — is it not? Why, the stranger would have had his weasand slit, I reckon, 'fore ever he came out of the Fairies' Wood! I know thee, Daoulaz — but little to thy credit."

      The man laughed hoarsely; and the landlady, eyeing him with disfavour, passed into the auberge.

      Yves sat indifferent, the half-emptied mug on his knee, his crowding thoughts running a steeplechase through his brain. Two napoleons for a night's work. Ay, the traveller could well afford as much — a man who could throw about gold pieces like that! Two napoleons was none too much for the job — no, nor yet three, if you came to think of it. And then there would be but sixteen to make. But sixteen — between him and Anne! The gentleman should pay him as a gentleman should; or, by St Gildas, he would wring it out of him! The landes were wide; he had but to lose his way, and the gentleman would pay him well enough to find it.

      Yves drained his mug with a loud laugh, and called to the landlady for the reckoning. She came out to the doorway, followed by a man — a short, thick-set man, dressed like a seaman. He rolled across to the bench where Yves sat brooding, and slapped him on the back.

      "So you're to be the lad that's to pilot me across country — eh?" he roared. "Well, we must look spry, my man; no missing the diligence for me. But another bottle of Bordeaux won't hurt us before we start. Here, mother, another bottle! — and of the best, mind ye." The red wine, vile as it was, was a novelty to Yves Pengaverec. It ran through his veins like fire, set his blood tingling and leaping, chased the thoughts in a wild scrambled throng through his brain. The stranger filled his glass once more with a liberal hand.

      "No fear of me as paymaster, my lad!" he shouted jovially. "I'll treat ye well. See here!" He hauled a leather bag from his pocket, loosened the string, and poured its contents — a jingling, glittering shower of gold — into the hollow of his other hand. "We're but just paid off at Lorient," he chuckled; "and there's more where that came from."

      Yves sat transfixed. His eyes glistened and sparkled as they fixed themselves on the glimmering pile. His hand clenched itself convulsively around the glass in which the red wine swam. His head craned forward eagerly. The stranger poured back the money with a careless jerk into the leather pouch; and Yves's face fell. A scowl, black and savage, came between his eyes; but his face was bent so low that the stranger could not see it.

      But one there was on the opposite side of the way who saw and noted it. A group of girls, brave in clean white caps and bright-hued fête-day dresses, loitered on the old stone bridge. It was the Feast of St Mathieu; and the vespers-bell of the little chapel of St Gildas, higher up the valley-side, was already tinkling. The girls strolled on, chattering lightly. But there was one among them on whom the eye of Yves Pengaverec had never before failed to fall, to whose side he had never before failed to saunter; and she had seen that look. And her heart grew suddenly cold and fearful.

      The red wine was drained — that bottle and another — to the last drop. Yves's head swam; his hand shook beneath the weight of the traveller's valise; his legs almost failed him as they two set out upon their way. But his thoughts were busy.

      The sun was sinking in an angry purple sky as they crossed the trickling Scorff and mounted the track that led out of the valley of Polniac upon the open landes. The solemn melody of the vesper-psalm reached their ears as they passed the hillside chapel. Yves Pengaverec crossed himself devoutly and shivered a little; but his brow was as black as the western sky.

      Not through the Coët ar Groach — the haunted Fairies' Wood — that lay dark and mysterious on the hillside above them. Not through there, though that was the nearest way. Yves recalled the bitter words that the woman at the auberge had spoken to Daoulaz, and they sounded in his ears like a hideous forewarning. Not through there. Rather keep to the track right up the valley — though it were a mile farther than pass through there.

      He did not mean to harm the man — no, no! But he would have a share of those golden napoleons that the stranger knew so ill how to take care of a — share that he could carry to the old man Mathurin when he asked him again for the hand of Anne. He would have a share of them — by fair asking, if it could be so. And if the stranger would not yield them up, why, then ——   Yves scanned with lowered eyelids the sturdy bulk of the man who trudged by his side, and compared it critically with his own wiry build; and a grim smile passed over his lips.

      The stranger tramped on all-unheeding, noisily familiar. The silent, glowering figure strode at his side. And so they passed up the valley and out on the bare landes.

      Darkness was falling around them — darkness that gathered no illumination from the cloud-muffled sky. The desolate heath stretched out before, vague, gloomy, illimitable. No flutter of air passed over the great solitude; no cry of bird or beast broke into the night; a vast ineffable stillness lay heavy upon all the world.

      Yves Pengaverec's conscience stirred uneasily. A vague sense of awe weighed upon him. There was something unearthly in this intense hush. He tried to whistle; he urged his companion to sing; but the sounds died away in their throats, and they strode on together in silence.

      Big drops of rain began to fall with a splash on the crisp heather. The night grew blacker and blacker still, till he could scarcely see the figure of the man who walked but an arm's-length from his side. But an arm's-length! He had but to stretch out his arm and grapple with him, and the leather pouch ——   But no! Ten thousand times, no! Not there. Wait till they had passed the great menhir on the heath, where Mathurin had found him that night twenty years ago, where his dead mother lay buried. Mother of Mercy! not till they were past that! The drops of sweat stood upon his brow at the thought.

      Of a sudden a blinding flash, flickering, lambent, swept across the sky; a crashing peal of thunder burst above their heads; and at the same instant, as if set loose by the sound, a cataract of rain descended. The storm that Daoulaz had predicted had come.

      Hissing and seething and spluttering, the torrent streamed down. No pause, no change, no intermission. The thunder rolled and clattered incessantly. The lightning leapt and flickered over the face of the heath. Tongues of flame, blue-tinged, quivering, lit on the trembling heather and shed a ghastly fitful glare over the solitude. The deep stillness had given place to a very hell of discord.

      Yves's superstitious terrors gripped him closer, and his blood stood still. Was this tempest by chance a sign, a portent, a divine warning? Was he to be consumed by the wrath from above, devoured by some celestial messenger of vengeance, with that sin — that sinful design of his — unshriven upon his soul? He was a Breton by training if not by birth, with all the Breton beliefs grown deep-rooted in his brain; and his nature fought stoutly with the mocking hardihood which the red wine had engendered in him. But the red wine conquered. Bah! The storm was nothing; it had been expected all day; it was usual at the time of year. And he meant no harm to the man. Storm or no, he would have his share of the money — once they were past the menhir.

      They could not be far from it now. With lowered heads and bent shoulders they were gaining the crest of the heath, where the menhir for centuries unknown had kept its solitary watch. A flash of dazzling brilliance zigzagged down the sky and irradiated the sombre plain. Ah! there it was in front of them — black and massive and irregular, with the tall crucifix on its summit in outline against the sky. Another flash, and another; and they could see it quite distinctly.

      Stay! What was that? The flash had fallen on something pale at the foot of the stone. Was it ——   Or was it but his fancy? Yves's knees shook; the sweat started, cold and clammy, upon his brow; the flesh along the ridge of his back shuddered and crept. He waited for the next flash, his dry lips muttering a prayer. The flash was long in coming. There was a lull in the tempest; the rain abated, the heavens remained black. Then all at once the fury of the storm burst out upon them once more. Flash followed flash; the plain was lit with a thousand flickering sheets of fire; the thunder rolled like some avenging spirit. And he saw.

      They were but thirty yards from the base of the great menhir, and the lightning-flashes lit it with a fierce, changing intensity. A woman's shape stood outlined against the stone, her arms thrown around it, her face turned from the travellers. It was no mistake, no illusion, no deception of the eyesight; the steely, quivering light played around the pale-robed figure and illumined it in keen contrast with the darkness of the granite. A woman's figure clung there, sure enough. And whose? Whose? The prayer would not come now. It had died away upon his nerveless lips, and his tongue groped for it in vain. He could only watch — watch — watch, with starting eyeballs and fluttering breath. Then, as he still stood gazing, horror-stricken, paralysed by a growing awe, the figure seemed of a sudden to turn and beckon to him; and in a lull of the thunder-rattle there came a long wail floating upon the storm, calling the name of Yves Pengaverec.

      He stayed no longer. With outstretched arms, praying, supplicating, groaning, in a very ecstasy of supernatural fear, he ran blindly forward. He ran blindly forward, with that glorious shining figure standing in miraculous radiance before his eyes, and cast himself at its feet, sobbing passionately.

·       ·       ·       ·       ·      ·

      Yves Pengaverec is an aged man now; and he and his old wife Anne, faithful companion of his long life-voyage, are content to look forward with patient eyes to the time, not far distant surely, when they shall both be laid to rest in the quiet hillside cemetery at the back of the old chapel of St Gildas. Fortune has done well by them. From the day when old Mathurin, stricken down by a sudden paralysis, promised his daughter in marriage to the penniless young peasant who was willing to work the fields for him, till now — when modern usages begin to interfere sadly with the primitive husbandry of La Basse Bretagne — the world has prospered with them. They are hale yet, and frosty-cheeked, and cheery. And the old couple will speak sometimes still of that terrible night when Anne, frightened by the look in her lover's eyes, had slipped away from the rest when vespers were done, and had fled through the Fairies' Wood and out upon the landes, hoping vaguely to overtake and speak with him; of how the storm, remembered to this day, had come upon her just as she reached the great menhir; and how the travellers, toiling round by the longer road, had appeared like a providence to save her in her need. But there is ever yet a secret which Yves Pengaverec will bear with him to the grave. His lips have never breathed word of the strange mistake that he made that night, or of the dark sin that his soul was saved from by that miraculous vision at the menhir.