h no
little fear, and when he was found one day lying dead on the floor of
his hut there was a feeling of consternation in the country. The first
person who, when looking in at the window as he went by, saw him
in this position, took to his heels. He had been so self-willed and
peculiar in his lifetime that no one ventured to guess as to how he
might wish to have his body disposed of. It was feared that if his
wishes were incorrectly interpreted, he would punish them by sending
the plague, or having the town swallowed up by an earthquake, or by
converting the country around into a marsh. Nor would it be wise
to take his body to the parish church, as he had sometimes shown an
aversion to it.

He might, perhaps, create a scandal. All the principal inhabitants
were assembled in the cell, with his stark black corpse in their
midst, when one of them made the following sensible suggestion: "We
never could understand him when he was alive; it was easier to trace
the flight of the swallow than to guess at his thoughts. Now that he
is dead, let him still follow his own fancy. We will cut down a few
trees, make a waggon of them and harness four oxen to it. Then he can
let them take him to the place where he wishes to be buried." This was
done, and the body of the saint deposited on the vehicle. The oxen,
guided by the invisible hand of Ronan, went in a straight line into
the thick of the forest, the trees bent or broke beneath their steps
with an awful crackling sound. The waggon stopped in the centre of the
forest, just where the largest of the oaks reared their head. The hint
was taken and the saint was buried there and a church erected to his
memory.

Tales of this kind inspired me early in life with a love of mythology.
The simplicity of spirit with which they were accepted carried one
back to the early ages of the world. Take for instance the way in
which, as I was taught to believe, my father was cured of fever when
a child. Before daybreak he was taken to the chapel of the saint who
exercised the healing power. A blacksmith arrived at the same time
with his forge, nails, and tongs. He lighted his fire, made his tongs
red hot, and held them before the face of the saint, threatening to
shoe him as he would a horse unless he cured the child of his
fever. The threat took immediate effect, and my father was cured.
Wood-carving has long been in great favour in Brittany. The statues of
these saints are extraordinarily life-lik