BRETON TROUT STREAMS 53 



rising and falling with the breeze. The 

 murmured melody grows clearer. Such 

 exultation for the good Saint Jean! But 

 now the chant is harsher. It seems to 

 press, to dwell upon one pagan note. 

 Surely the ancient gods have wakened and 

 walk the landes to-night ! 



Listen again — through the wild chant 

 floats another sound, unearthly, obscure, 

 booming on the air — the sacred rites have 

 reached that part which is called the milk- 

 ing of the goat. 



Let us come down and see. The path 

 is steep and rugged, yet should we stumble 

 in the dark it is not unlikely that Pan, 

 goat-footed, will lend a kindly hand and 

 lead us to the fires. We reach the first. 

 There in the flickering light the old folks 

 are praying. They pick at their strings 

 of beads. They mutter. Then from the 

 shadows plunge two comely girls, dishev- 

 elled now and fighting madly, all for one 

 scorched and faded flower. The rose that 

 crowned the bonfire is a wondrous talis- 

 man ; worn on a woollen yarn against a 

 maiden bosom, it brings complete happi- 

 ness in love. Why, even a charred twig 



