the head, and a grin showing the long front teeth, and "ja-ja," proved to be the universal answer to our questions. One of my companions opened his book to sketch a group of children perfect in their dress and attitudes, but after staring wonderstruck for a few minutes they all started away in dumb terror.

Now that we were sure about the fête, we resolved to go on to Baud and return next morning to St. Nicodème, for it was evidently impossible to get a lodging at St. Nicholas; the cabaret was woefully dirty, and the mistress pointed out to us with much triumph a huge pile of dark-looking loaves on the filthy floor ready for the fair to-morrow. "

We asked if we could have a voiture, and she called a sulky-looking lad to answer us.

He came gnawing a straw.

"A voiture!" he said contemptuously. "Oui, Dame, I should think so. If Messieurs et Dame will come with me I will arrange for them with Jean Jacques.”

We followed him up the road a few yards. At the door of a cottage sat an old beggar dressed in a ragged shirt, drab trousers, and gaiters. Long grey hair streamed over his shoulders, and his bare chest showed through his open shirt-front.

A colloquy in Breton, and then to our dismay we learned that this dirty old bundle of rags was the Jean Jacques who would drive us to Baud, and that he would be ready directly.

"But is there no other vehicle?" we asked.

The sulky lad's contempt was beyond endurance. "No, there is no other vehicle, and people should think them

selves lucky to get this; it is quite possible that some one will arrive by the next train who will want Jean Jacques and his white horse, and then where will Messieurs et Madame be?

After this harangue he ran away, and having settled the bargain with Jean Jacques, whose French was execrable, we walked disconsolately down to the river, Jean Jacques, in a very cracked voice, calling something in Breton, which a woman told us signified that he would be ready in five minutes.

On the hill opposite St. Nicholas is the village of Castennec and the farm De la Garde. This is said to be the site of the ancient Roman station of Sulis, on the road between Dariorig and Vorganium (now Carhaix). Many Roman relics have been found here, and at the foot of this hill, beside the Blavet, St. Gildas and St. Bieuzy made a hermitage among the rocks, which form here a sort of natural shelter. It was from this hermitage that Count Guerech summoned the saint to avenge the wrong done to Tryphena. There is a fine view from the top of the hill of Castennec.

We sauntered on to the bridge and enjoyed the lovely view up and down the river, but the five minutes grew into thirty at least.

At last we heard a shout, and, turning round to look up the road, we saw our vehicle. On inspection it proved to be a miserable little cart, without any springs. Two sacks stuffed with bean-straw were laid across the seats, and a little white horse stood between the shafts.

Jean Jacques was sweeping the inside of the cart most vigorously with a huge besom made of the green broomplant. He had washed himself, and had wonderfully

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smartened his appearance. The upper portion of his rags was covered with a white flannel jacket trimmed with black velvet and small brass buttons; he wore a large flat straw hat, also trimmed with black velvet. But the horse was deplorable-small, with drooping head, looking as if his bones were unset and he was only held together by his dirty white skin.

We clambered into the vehicle with heavy hearts; but no anticipation could have prepared us for the reality. Directly we started the jolting was terrible; and, besides this, the horse had a perpetual zigzag movement which sent us from side to side of the cart, and doubled the length of our journey. I felt no better than a shuttlecock, the side of the cart representing the battledore. We tried to speak to Jean Jacques, but he shook his head imperiously, and answered in Breton, or in French almost as incomprehensible. One might have taken him for a hideous old wizard, with his gleaming eyes and flowing grey hair, but for his religious reverence. At every church and every Calvary we passed he slackened his pace, uncovered, and mumbled a long prayer, after which he always whipped his horse violently, and jolted us worse than ever.

That drive to Baud was certainly "like a hideous dream," though it lay through a picturesque country, the road on each side constantly bordered by tall slender silver birchtrees, through which we got glimpses of the Montagnes Noires. The climax of our torture was reached when we rattled over the stones at Baud, and we got down with thankful hearts at the little inn.

MORBIHAN.

CHAPTER XII.

Baud-The "Venus" of Quinipily-Pontivy.

UR drive of an hour and a half had shaken us nearly to

OUR

pieces; and as Baud seemed to offer no inducement to explore, but looked a sleepy, uninteresting town, we rested at the little inn, Chapeau Rouge, before setting out to see the famous statue of Quinipily. The inn seemed to be kept by a father and daughter; the latter waited on us, and was much disappointed to hear that we could not stay the night, but that we intended to spend next day at St. Nicodème. "Ah!" she said sadly, "it is so with travellers; they miss much that they should see. Ah! it is a pity not to stay; if Monsieur saw us on Sunday he would find plenty to fill his sketch-book with ; no need to go to St. Nicodème for that. Our dresses are something to see as we come out We have velvet so wide "-measuring about

of church.

three inches-" on our skirts."

Her working dress was very quaint, the broad lappets of her flat muslin cap being pinned across the back of her head so as to give the appearance of a white pyramid; her black cloth dress had the square opening of the body filled

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as usual by a white muslin kerchief, but the sleeves were different from any we had seen-wide and openʼat the wrist, with white loose sleeves beneath them.

She was very piquante-looking. She was much fairer than any Bretonne we had yet seen, but afterwards at Quimper we found the same type of face, and also in Pont Aven and its neighbourhood. She said that though her life had been passed at Baud, and though St. Nicholas was the next station, she had never seen the Pardon of St. Nicodème ; "but then "—she gave a deep sigh-" we are five kilomètres from the railway."

She fetched a dark-eyed little boy to guide us to the statue, and certainly we should not have found our way easily alone. We soon left the high road and went across a field of sweet-scented clover and then through a plot of buckwheat, covered with delicate white flowers trembling on their scarlet stalks. Spreading chestnut-trees rose up here and there out of the hedges, giving grateful shade, for the sun was still hot, and we were glad to reach a lofty wood clothing the side of a steep hill. The path we followed is cut on the side of this hill, and we saw the high road at some distance below through the trunks of the trees. These are planted so closely, and are so tall and overshadowing, that there is a dim mysterious light in the wood, in keeping with the strange relic of pagan superstition to which the path leads: Blocks of moss-stained granite show here and there among the trees; brambles and furze border the winding uneven path, which takes its way, now uphill now downhill, between the tall dark trees. It is a singularly lovely and romantic walk. Here and there, where the trees opened, the golden afternoon sunshine