ul cry---

'Hola! Blessings on Notre-Dame and holy Father Colombeau, now are we
saved!' and on Philip's hasty interrogation, he explained that it was
from the bells of Nissard, which the good priest always caused to be
rung during these sea-fogs, to disperse all evil beings, and guide the
wanderers.

The guide strode on manfully, as the sound became clearer and nearer,
and Philip was infinitely relived to be free from all supernatural
anxieties, and to have merely to guard against the wiles of a Polish
priest, a being almost as fabulously endowed in his imagination as poor
little Berangere's soul could be in that of the fisherman.

The drenching Atlantic mist had wetted them all to the skin, and closed
round them so like a solid wall, that they had almost lost sight of each
other, and had nothing but the bells' voices to comfort them, till quite
suddenly there was a light upon the mist, a hazy reddish gleam--a window
seemed close to them. The guide, heartily thanking Our Lady and St.
Julian, knocked at a door, which opened at once into a warm, bright,
superior sort of kitchen, where a neatly-dressed elderly peasant woman
exclaimed, 'Welcome, poor souls! Enter, then. Here, good Father, are
some bewildered creatures. Eh! wrecked are you, good folks, or lost in
the fog?'

At the same moment there came from behind the screen that shut off the
fire from the door, a benignant-looking, hale old man in a cassock,
with long white hair on his shoulders, and a cheerful face, ruddy from
sea-wind.

'Welcome, my friends,' he said. 'Thanks to the saints who have guided
you safely. You are drenched. Come to the fire at once.'

And as they moved on into the full light of the fire and the rude iron
lamp by which he had been reading, and he saw the draggled plumes and
other appurtenances that marked the two youths as gentlemen, he
added, 'Are you wrecked, Messieurs? We will do our poor best for your
accommodation;' and while both mechanically murmured a word of thanks,
and removed their soaked hats, the good man exclaimed, as he beheld
Berenger's ashy face, with the sunken eyes and deep scars, 'Monsieur
should come to bed at once. He is apparently recovering from a severe
wound. This way, sir; Jolitte shall make you some hot tisane.'

'Wait, sir,' said Berenger, very slowly, and his voice sounding hollow
from exhaustion; 'they say that you can tell me of my child. Let me
hear.'

'Monsieur's child!' exclaimed the bewildered curat