106 GOLDEN DAYS 



fly confident, secure. Then fate laughed. 

 The cast snapped. Slowly the great fish 

 rolled over and sank like a phantom in the 

 depths. 



With thoughts too full for speech we 

 made our way through lush grass and 

 fields of ox-eyed daisies to the upper 

 water. Here fate relented, for on a wet- 

 fly, well sunk, we took another brace. 

 Both were good fish ; yet what recked 

 we — we who had lost the king of fishes 

 only one short hour ago ? It was then, 

 too, that we became aware of the urgent 

 pangs of hunger, that lunch had been 

 omitted, and that now the hour was close 

 on five o'clock. Fortunately, the farm 

 was near at hand (moreover, none may 

 compare with Suzanne's mother in the 

 matter of cooking trout). It is known — 

 this farm — as T'y ar Spaniol. You reach 

 it by a path crossing a low stone bridge, 

 up a rough avenue of walnut-trees. The 

 house of the Spaniard is three-storied, 

 built of time-worn brick, incongruous and 

 un-Breton, but strangely fascinating. A 

 round tower intersects the straight 

 facade, with loop-holes at its summit, and 



