t treasure, a stole worn
by St. Pol. Tradition has it that when St. Pol landed, the island was a
prey to a fierce and fiery dragon, whom the monk conquered by throwing
his stole round the neck of the monster and commanding it to cast itself
into the sea; a command it instantly and amiably obeyed by rushing to
the top of a high rock and plunging for ever beneath the waves. The rock
is still called in Breton language Toul ar Sarpent, signifying Serpent's
Hole.

[Illustration: ROSCOFF.]

Roscoff itself is extremely fertile; the deadly aspect of the little
town is not extended to the surrounding plains. The climate is much
influenced by the Gulf Stream, and the winters are temperate. Flowers
and vegetables grow here all the year round that in less favoured
districts are found only in summer. Like Provence in the far South,
Roscoff is famous for its primeurs, or early vegetables. If you go to
some of the great markets in Paris in the spring and notice certain
country people with large round hats, very primitive in appearance,
disposing of these vegetables, you may at once know them for Bretons
from Roscoff. You will not fall in love with them; they are plain,
honest, and stupid. We found the few people we spoke to in Roscoff quite
answering to this description, and could make nothing of them.

On our way back to the station we visited the great natural curiosity of
the place: a fig tree whose branches cover an area of nearly two hundred
square yards, supported by blocks of wood or by solid masonry built up
for the purpose. It yields an immense quantity of fruit, and would
shield a small army beneath its foliage. Its immense trunk is knotted
and twisted about in all directions; but the tree is full of life and
vigour, and probably without parallel in the world.

Soon after this, we were once more steaming towards Morlaix, our
head-quarters. As we passed St. Pol de Leon, its towers and steeples
stood out grandly in the gathering twilight. Before us there rose up the
vision of the aged Countess who had received and entertained us with so
much kindness and hospitality. It was not too much to say that we longed
to renew our experience, to pass not hours but days in that charmed and
charming abode, refined by everything that was old-world and artistic;
and to number our hostess amongst those friends whom time and chance,
silence and distance, riches or poverty, life or death, can never
change.

We re-entered Morlaix with the