roofs and latticed
windows. Ichabod may be written upon the lintels of all that is ancient
and disappearing, all that is modern and hideous. The spirit and beauty
of the past are dead and buried.

"We are almost there," said Andre, with a sigh that would have been
profound if he had had strength to make it so. "A few more yards and we
arrive."

We too sighed with relief, though the midnight walk amidst these wonders
of a bygone age had proved refreshing and awakening. But we sympathised
with our guide, who was only kept up by necessity.

We passed out of the market place again into a narrow street, dark,
silent and gloomy. At the third or fourth house, Andre exclaimed "Nous
voila!" and down went the baggage like a dead-weight in front of a
closed doorway.

The house was in darkness: no sight or sound could be seen or heard;
everyone seemed wrapped in slumber; a strange condition of things if we
were expected. The man rang the bell: a loud, long peal. No response; no
light, no movement; profound silence.

"C'est drole!" he murmured. "The theatre" (that everlasting theatre!)
"has been long over and Madame must have returned. Where can she be?"

"Probably in bed," replied H.C. "We have little chance of following her
excellent example if this is to go on. There must be some mistake, and
we are not expected."

"Impossible," returned Andre. "La Patrone never forgets anything and
must have arranged it all." He, too, had unlimited confidence in Madame,
but for once it was misplaced.

[Illustration: GRANDE RUE, MORLAIX.]

Not only the house, but the whole street was in darkness. Not the ghost
of a glimmer appeared from any window or doorway; not a gas-light from
end to end. Oil lamps ought to have been slung across from house to
house to keep up the character of the thoroughfare; but here,
apparently, consistency was less thought of than economy. We looked and
looked, every moment expecting a cloaked watchman to appear, with
lantern casting weird flashes around and a sepulchral voice calling the
hour and the weather. But _Il Sereno_ of Majorca had no counterpart in
Morlaix; the darkness, silence and solitude remained unbroken.

We were the sole group of humanity visible, and must have appeared
singular as the still flaring candle lighted up our faces, pale and
anxious from fatigue, threw out in huge proportions the head of our
guide, bound up as if prepared for the grave for which he was fast
qualifying.

After a