"Not in the hall, for the serving-men would
see; nor in my bower, for the maid would be
there; nor in the parlour, for it looks out on
the terrace. But there's a little wood-house,
you know, at the far end of the corridor; I
will be there when all the lights are out."

So D'Aiguillon, rejoicing in his wicked heart,
sent off his ribbon, and ring, and brooch to
Paris, and wrote saying he should soon return
triumphant. Then he dressed himself in his
best, and made his way to the wood-house.
He had a long while to wait, and many a time
did he smooth his rich lace band and ruffles, and
shake the scent out of his embroidered handkerchief,
and practise his most killing look and
most graceful attitude. At last he heard a light
step, and saw a lantern in the distance. The
door was open, he felt he was looking superlatively
charming, when, with a quick movement,
Francéza pulled the door to, double-locked
it on the poor count, and cried, "There
is your place, Sir Count, till Kerjean comes
home again!"

The wood-house was filled, like most of the
out-premises, with this tow-yarn, which, we
said, the old people used to spin when there
was nothing else to do. So, next day, Kerjean's
wife came and opened the little slide in
the door, and said, " Sir Count, we are none of
us idle here. See, I have brought you tools;
fall to, and weave for your dinner." At first
the count stormed and raged, and swore revenge;
but she was a resolute woman, though
she had laughed at his nonsensical talk, and
hunger soon tamed Jiim, and at last he took to
trying to weave in good earnest.

Meanwhile, the letter and parcel got to Paris,
and you may well imagine how Kerjean looked
when he read and saw. For a time he stood
rooted to the spot and as pale as death, and
then (without saying a word) he just ordered
round his bright bay, which was the fastest
horse in all Brittany (not to mention France),
and off he went. The bay could sleep standing,
and he slept in the saddle; he fed Pen-ru*
himself, watching him every grain he ate, and
the moment the last grain was eaten he clapped
on the bridle, and was off again. So he rode
day and night, and towards evening of the
seventh day he got near home; but there had
been a grievous storm, and the waters were out,
and the church steeple had been struck and
blown down. " Ah," thought he, " the cock
on the tower has flown off at last!"

So he gave Pen-ru the spur unmercifully, and
just got inside the oak avenue when the horse
that had been lame some time broke down.

"There, Heaven help me, I've killed a faithful
horse for a faithless woman."

Through the " wilderness," and by the garden,
and up to the hall door, and in another minute
his loud knocking roused the castle.

"That's Kerjean," said the lady, and ran to
greet him. But he pushed her wildly aside.

"Where is D'Aiguillon, you false woman?"

* Red-head.

"Come and see. I could not help it. I did
the best I could. It was your fault for sending
such a man here."

Kerjean sprang after her, and as they walked
along the corridor they saw a light, and heard
the noise of weaving.

"Listen how industrious he is," said the
lady, laughing.

Her husband was puzzled. She bade him
look through the little slide, and there, amid a
great heap of tow-yarn, sat the count, weaving
away as though his life depended on it.

"There," said Kerjean's wife; " at first my
gentleman thought that he, a real gentleman,
would be degraded by putting a finger to the
work, but hunger pretty soon tamed him, and,
lo and behold! after several trials he has somehow
got to make a strong, warm kind of stuff,
which I never saw before."

The count was so busy that he didn't hear
them, till Kerjean burst into a fit of laughter
at seeing Oliver's hat and sword lying on a bale
of tow beside him. But courtiers in those days
were used to treat the Seventh Commandment
lightly, so our prisoner did not lose his presence
of mind, though his smile was rather bitter as
he said:

"I've lost my bet, M. de Kerjean."

"Then if you don't want me to run you
through the body, you must go and tell the
truth to all the other noblemen and gentlemen
at court; for your letter and the three keepsakes
you sent made them think otherwise."

D'Aiguillon promised to make a full and
public confession, and to give back the presents;
but the lady, smiling, told him he might
keep them, by way of recompense for the good
he had done the poor folks of the neighbourhood,
by inventing such a fine, strong kind of
stuff.

From that time forth stout sacking (ballins)
became more and more the staple of the Leon
country (the Lyonnesse of our Arthur's legends);
but people never forget how it was first found
out, and the rhyming proverb is still extant:

The first of the sacking-makers
Learn'd his trade at Kerjean.

One more tale, which we will give very briefly,
for it is, in essentials, the same that many must
have read in Irish and Welsh story-books.
Ker-is (the city under the sea) exists in Lough
Neagh, in Cardigan Bay, in more than one
spot along the west coast of Ireland. You may
read a good deal about it in Mr. Kennedy's
book, Legendary Fictions of the Irish Celts,
out of a review of which the Times managed the
other day to get an explanation of Fenianism.
Grallon was a king of Cornouailles—a better
never held sceptre. But his daughter Dahut
was a wild girl, not bad, but flighty and fond
of freedom. So, being, moreover, a great
enchantress, she had built herself a town out at
sea, where is now the Bay of Douarne-nez;
and there she lived in splendour, waited on by
all the korigans (fairies) of Cornouailles and
Vannes. All her palace shone as if covered