nts of a song sung at a veille. The
door was open, and he could see within the happy gathering of lads and
lassies in the light of the crasset. There was the spacious kitchen, its
beams and rafters dark with age, adorned with flitches of bacon, huge
loaves resting in the racllyi beneath the centre beam, the broad open
hearth, the flaming fire of logs, and the great brass pan shining like
fresh-coined gold, on its iron tripod over the logs. Lassies in
their short woollen petticoats, and bedgones of blue and lilac, with
boisterous lads, were stirring the contents of the vast bashin--many
cabots of apples, together with sugar, lemon-peel, and cider; the old
ladies in mob-caps tied under the chin, measuring out the nutmeg and
cinnamon to complete the making of the black butter: a jocund recreation
for all, and at all times.

In one corner was a fiddler, and on the veille, flourished for the
occasion with satinettes and fern, sat two centeniers and the prevot,
singing an old song in the patois of three parishes.

Ranulph looked at the scene lingeringly. Here he was, with mystery and
peril to hasten his steps, loitering at the spot where the light of home
streamed out upon the roadway. But though he lingered, somehow he seemed
withdrawn from all these things; they were to him now as pictures of a
distant past.

Dormy plucked at his coat. "Come, come, lift your feet, lift your feet,"
said he; "it's no time to walk in slippers. The old man will be getting
scared, oui-gia!" Ranulph roused himself. Yes, yes, he must hurry on.
He had not forgotten his father, but something held him here; as though
Fate were whispering in his ear. What does it matter now? While yet you
may, feed on the sight of happiness. So the prisoner going to
execution seizes one of the few moments left to him for prayer, to look
lingeringly upon what he leaves, as though to carry into the dark a
clear remembrance of it all.

Moving on quietly in a kind of dream, Ranulph was roused again by
Dormy's voice: "On Sunday I saw three magpies, and there was a wedding
that day. Tuesday I saw two--that's for joy--and fifty Jersey prisoners
of the French comes back on Jersey that day. This morning one I saw.
One magpie is for trouble, and trouble's here. One doesn't have eyes for
naught--no, bidemme!"

Ranulph's patience was exhausted.

"Bachouar," he exclaimed roughly, "you make elephants out of fleas!
You've got no more news than a conch-shell has music. A minut