56 GOLDEN DAYS 



and hang from his lean shoulders in 

 spacious folds. His head is raised. We 

 mark its leafy chaplet. The ancient 

 Breton listens. 



Soft and thin and far away there steals 

 a cadence on the ear. It grows, resounds 

 along the landes. Clear are the voices 

 through the oakwood glades ; sonorous 

 they echo down the valley-way to rise in 

 thunder beside the granite stones, and 

 fall again in mute expectancy. The 

 silence deepens, touched only by clean 

 swish of sickle through the mistletoe, the 

 crackling of the sacred fire, the thud of 

 sacrifice upon the alter stone — the gods 

 have answered. 



Of course, to the sound Church ot 

 England mind all this is rank idolatry. 

 A trait contemptible displaying the ignor- 

 ance of the peasantry. Perhaps — God 

 knows ; until we know let's leave it. You 

 say the Breton drinks — yes, terribly at 

 times, because — and there is no incon- 

 gruity in this — because he is an idealist. 

 He sees visions which he cannot reach. 

 He dreams dreams which never come true. 

 Is it for nothing that he still can use the 



