hrough some hidden emotion. Had
those eyes wept? That hand, moulded for an unwrought statue, had it
struck? That ragged brow, where savage honor was imprinted, and on which
strength had left vestiges of the gentleness which is an attribute
of all true strength, that forehead furrowed with wrinkles, was it in
harmony with the heart within? Why was this man in the granite? Why
was the granite in the man? Which was the man, which was the granite?
A world of fancies came into our minds. As our guide had prophesied, we
passed in silence, rapidly; when he met us he saw our emotion of mingled
terror and astonishment, but he made no boast of the truth of his
prediction; he merely said,--

"You have seen him."

"Who is that man?"

"They call him the Man of the Vow."

You can imagine the movement with which our two heads turned at once
to our guide. He was a simple-hearted fellow; he understood at once our
mute inquiry, and here follows what he told us; I shall try to give it
as best I can in his own language, retaining his popular parlance.

"Madame, folks from Croisic and those from Batz think this man is guilty
of something, and is doing a penance ordered by a famous rector to
whom he confessed his sin somewhere beyond Nantes. Others think that
Cambremer, that's his name, casts an evil fate on those who come within
his air, and so they always look which way the wind is before they pass
this rock. If it's nor'-westerly they wouldn't go by, no, not if their
errand was to get a bit of the true cross; they'd go back, frightened.
Others--they are the rich folks of Croisic--they say that Cambremer has
made a vow, and that's why people call him the Man of the Vow. He is
there night and day, he never leaves the place. All these sayings have
some truth in them. See there," he continued, turning round to show us
a thing we had not remarked, "look at that wooden cross he has set up
there, to the left, to show that he has put himself under the protection
of God and the holy Virgin and the saints. But the fear that people have
of him keeps him as safe as if he were guarded by a troop of soldiers.
He has never said one word since he locked himself up in the open air
in this way; he lives on bread and water, which is brought to him every
morning by his brother's daughter, a little lass about twelve years old
to whom he has left his property, a pretty creature, gentle as a lamb, a
nice little girl, so pleasant. She has such blue eyes, lo