24 GOLDEN DAYS 



at twilight can realise their drear melan- 

 choly, with something in it that is sinister, 

 an echo of the underworld. Across the 

 valley the note of a bittern sounded like 

 a human cry. No wonder the peasants 

 walk many leagues round rather than cross 

 this track after sundown. I confess my 

 pace quickened while passing a menhir^ 

 which loomed big in the half-light. Here 

 Druids had offered sacrifice. Surely that 

 was a dwarfed, crouching figure by the 

 stone ? 



" With my inward eye 'tis an old man grey, 

 With my outward, a thistle across the way." 



With an effort I stood still. To break 

 the spell I tried to shout a cheerful 

 halloa. The sound came back derisively. 

 As I listened the murmur of the ford 

 was borne to me loud and distinct, then 

 hushed again by the silent fingers of the 

 evening breeze. I called to mind Jean 

 Pierre's stories of the Washers of the Ford, 

 and hurried on again, listening to fancied 

 footsteps that followed faster and faster 

 behind me. Of course it was absurd, and 

 a sudden bolt in this country would only 



