Page:Harper's New Monthly Magazine - v109.djvu/539





OUNTING the winding stair of the north tower toward the battlements, I peeped in for an instant through the hangings of the tower chamber. Old Rozennik, bent above her spinning-wheel by the window, was telling the little maid Genofa the ancient tale of the Korils of Plauden—the nains and korigans who danced by moonlight on the moor Motenn-Dervenn, and the hunchback Bénéad Guilcher who finished the korigans' chant for them.

crooned old Rozennik, nodding above her spinning-wheel. "And that was as far as they could sing—the korigans—till Guilcher taught them the rest. Eh, he was well paid!"

"Hardi Bénéad!" cried the little maid, excitedly. "How was he paid, old one? How?" And I laughed, and climbed on up the winding stair till I came out upon the battlements, where the good salt wind breathed sweet and warm, and the goëlands circled round and round lazily like buzzards, piping their harsh, plaintive cries.

Out to westward the sun was dying in a welter of blood beyond the sea's rim, and the sea was heaving swirling oil, not water. Where it heaved it caught the crimson light and bled dully: where it swirled you would have said a desperate battle was being waged beneath the surface and casting its gore aloft. Perhaps— These be strange seas hereabouts, strange and terrible. That smiling little bay in the mainland is the Baie des Trépassés, where wrecks and dead men come like homing birds from all the northern coast—from Brest, from the Ouessant, borne by currents beyond our ken. The rounding of the great Pointe du Raz yonder seems a simple matter, but the passage between the point and the Vieille, the rocky islet, is the deadly Raz de Sein, where the tide-rip runs like a river, and varies in power and direction with each hour of the day. Our fishermen hereabouts pray daily:

"Sweet Christ, deliver us from the flames of hell and from the grip of the Raz de Sein!"

Lastly, under these very waves, between my tower on the Tévennec and yonder cliffs of the mainland, lies the great drowned city of Is, which God covered for its sins. In time of fog or storm you may hear bells toll beneath you. In time of blue sky and clear sea perhaps you will catch a wavering glimpse of tower or spire. Men lost overboard from boats and rescued at last have told strange tales.

Will the city rise again—great as Paris ("par-et-is")? The God who drowned it knows.

A snatch of song came up to my ears, very sweet and high and faint with the distance, and I leaned over the battlements to see who might be singing below. It was old Kabik, who sat upon 