The old lady came and stood full before me
and looked, with something like fury, in my
countenance.

"What business had I," she at length
asked, "to speak of the bride of Kerwareva?"

These words at once told me, that poor
Cornic's fate was, in reality, decided. I
remained silent, and the hostess, thinking
that she had sufficiently rebuked me,
went away to attend to her domestic duties.
But, it seems that her mind continued to
work upon the thoughts I had suggested. She
came back to me with a gentler expression
of countenance, sat down near me, and said,

"What curiosity can a stranger have about
the bride of Kerwareva?"

I replied that I did not know what she
meant; that I had once heard that M. Bosc
had a pretty daughter; and that I asked about
her, simply because I had nothing else to ask

"In that case," replied she, "take my
advice and do not speak of her to any one
else in this island. The friends of M. Bosc
are numerous and quarrelsome. I have no
time to tell you her story now, but I will say
something about it this evening, before you
go to bed. If you wish to see her," she added,
lowering her voice, " take a brisk walk
towards the northern point of our island, pass
Kerwareva, just look at the pretty little house
you will see built there, and manage to reach
the Peacock's Hollow at the time of low tide.
Approach it softly; and, if you respect sorrow,
do not speak to what you see."

So saying, the hostess—in whom insular
exclusiveness had thus yielded to female
garrulity—bustled away to attend to some
new customer, and I started in the direction
she had pointed out. I soon reached
Vauban's Causeway, and, having passed a
hamlet that immediately succeeds it, entered
upon a country totally different in
character from that which I have described.
Everything wore a wilder and more savage
aspect. Bocks more frequently broke through
the soil, and rose to a greater height, in
strange forms. The vegetation was evidently
less active. Heath and brushwood stretched
in great masses here and there. The few
houses were of a different character, lower
and more primitive. Kerwareva, which I
soon reached, was composed of mere huts,
built of loose stone, and thatched with turf.
But, a little way from it, amidst some rocks,
rose, as I had been led to expect, an elegant
little house, that looked as much out of place
there, as a London villa in the midst of the
Libyan desert. The shutters were closed,
and it did not at first seem to be inhabited;
but, as I passed near it, I saw a very
respect-able-looking man—no doubt the Admiral—
sitting in the doorway, in an attitude of
despondency, but looking with intent eagerness
towards the north. Although curious
to scan the countenance of another of the
actors in the sad story, I refrained from
approaching; and continued my walk towards
the Peacock's Hollow.

As soon as I had passed the last house of
the village, all traces of human presence
disappeared. I entered a realm of rock, earth,
air, and water, intermingled. First, came a
desert heath, sinking here and there into a
salt-marsh; then an inclined plain of meagre
turf; then two enormous blocks of granite,
rising up like the fregmentary walls of a
ruined tower of gigantic magnitude. I looked
round for the form I expected to see. All
was silent, save when the thousand murmurs
of the waves on every side were borne along
by a gust of wind. I advanced slowly between
the seeming walls, meeting with no obstacle
but some huge stones, rounded by the
continual action of the water, which at present,
however, was far beneath. Soon a kind of
subterranean roar warned me to be cautious;
and presently I saw a vast abyss open before
me, descending to invisible depths and widening
towards the beach below, where the
water at its lowest ebb was playing in the
light of the sun, now far down towards the
horizon. Across the centre of the gulf lay
a huge block of stone, like a bridge, which,
as I afterwards learned, is ever lifted up by
the high tide as it rushes in, and ever falls
back into its old place as solid and firm as ever.
It was easy to see that it was impossible to
approach the Peacock's Hollow except by the
way I had come. The huge rocks inclining
inward rose far over- head; not even a
goat could have moved along their surface.
I began to fear some catastrophe, but, on
looking back, suddenly saw a light graceful
figure, clothed in white, advancing by the way
I had come. I made myself small against
the rock to let it pass. There was no doubt
in my mind that this was Madeleine, the
bride of Kerwareva. She passed fearlessly
by me and draw near the edge of the gulf. I
retired a little, but gazed anxiously at her.
She took up a pebble, and, having murmured
some words that resembled an incantation,
cast it below. Then she listened for awhile,
clapped her hands joyously, exclaimed:—
"This year—this year!" and came running
back with the lightness of a fawn. I again
allowed her to pass: and, having no further
curiosity to satisfy at the Peacock's Hollow,
slowly retraced my steps.

On reaching the heath that precedes
Kerwareva, I was surprised to see Madeleine
crouching down near the path, and seeming
to watch eagerly for my coming. I affected
to pass by without seeing her, but she ran
towards me and took hold of my sleeve,
smiling in a deprecating manner, as if she
feared I might be offended. Let me admit
that my lip quivered, and my eyes grew dim.
I did not need the revelations of mine hostess
of Le Bourg to explain these unequivocal
signs. The poor thing had evidently lost her
reason. Though what she now said, appeared
at first plain and sensible enough.