XI.
In the days of Gildas the Wise, intense silence always reigned at night through the dense oak forest of the Armorican country. One of the most lonely places was Cæsar's camp, the name was given to the huge masses of stone that encumbered the barren heath; and it was the common opinion that the pagan giants, supposed to be buried under them, rose from their graves at midnight and roamed up and down the long avenues, watching for the late passers-by, to twist their necks.
This night, however,—the night after Christmas,—many persons could be seen, about eleven o'clock, on the heath before the stones of Carnac, all around the Great Basin or circle, whose irregular outline was clearly visible by moonlight. The enclosure was entirely empty. Outside no one was seen, it is true; but many could be heard gabbling in the shadow of the high rocks, under the shelter of the stumps of oaks, even in the tufts of thorny brambles; and all this assemblage watched for something, and that something was the wolf, Sylvestre Ker. They had come from Plouharnel, and also from Lannelar, from Carnac, from Kercado, even from the old town of Crach, beyond La Trinité.
Who had brought together all these people, young and old, men and women? The legend does not say; but very probably Matheline had strewn around the cruel pearls of her laughter, and Pol Bihan had not been slow to relate what he had seen after the midnight Mass.
By some means or other, the entire country around for five or six leagues knew that the son of Martin Ker, the tenant of the abbey, had become a man-wolf, and that he was doomed to expiate his crime in the spot haunted by the phantoms,—the Great Basin of the Pagans, between the tower and the Druid stones.
Many of the watchers had never seen a man-wolf, and there reigned in the crowd, scattered in invisible groups, a fever of curiosity, terror, and impatience; the minutes lengthened as they passed, and it seemed as though midnight, stopped on the way, would never come.
There were at that time no clocks in the neighborhood to mark the hour, but the matin-bell of the convent of Ruiz gave notice that the wished-for moment had arrived.
While waiting there was busy conversation: they spoke of the man-wolf, of phantoms, and also of betrothals, for the rumor was spread that the bans of Matheline du Coat-Dor, the promised bride of Sylvestre Ker, with the strong Pol Bihan, who had never found a rival in the wrestling-field, would be published on the following Sunday; and I leave you to imagine how Matheline's laughter ran in pearly cascades when congratulated on her approaching marriage.
By the road which led up to the tower a shadow slowly descended; it was not the wolf, but a poor woman in mourning, whose head was bent upon her breast, and who held in her hand an object that shone like a mirror, and the brilliant surface of which reflected the moonbeams.
"It is Josserande Ker!" was whispered around the circle, behind the rocks, in the brambles, and under the stumps of the oaks.
"'Tis the widow of the armed keeper of the great door!"
"'Tis the mother of the wolf, Sylvestre Ker!"
"She also has come to see...."
"But what has she in her hand?"
Twenty voices asked the question. Matheline, who had good eyes, and such beautiful ones, replied,—
"It looks like an axe.... Happy am I to be rid of those two, the mother and son! With them I could never laugh."
But there were two or three good souls who said in low tones,—
"Poor widow! her heart must be full of sorrow."
"But what does she want with that axe?"
"It is to defend her wolf," again replied Matheline, who carried a pitchfork.
Pol Bihan held an enormous hollow stick which resembled a club. Every one was armed either with threshing-flails or rakes or hoes; some even bore scythes, carried upright; for they had not only come to look on, but to make an end of the man-wolf.
Again was heard the chime of the matin-bells of the convent of Ruiz, and immediately a smothered cry ran from group to group,—
"Wolf! wolf! wolf!"
Josserande heard it, for she paused in her descent and cast an anxious look around; but, seeing no one, she raised her eyes to heaven and clasped her hands over the handle of her axe.
The wolf, in the meantime, with fuming nostrils and eyes which looked like burning coals, leaped over the stones of the enclosure and began to run around the circle.
"See, see!" said Pol Bihan; "he no longer limps." And Matheline, dazzled by the red light from his eyes, added: "It seems he is no longer one-eyed!"
Pol brandished his club, and continued,—
"What are we waiting for? Why not attack him?"
"Go you first," said the men.
"I caught cold the other day, and my leg is stiff, which keeps me from running," answered Pol.
"Then I will go first!" cried Matheline, raising her pitchfork. "I will soon show how I hate the wretch!"
Dame Josserande heard her, and sighed,—
"Girl, whom I blessed in baptism, may God keep me from cursing you now!"
This Matheline, whose pearls were worth nothing, was no coward; for she carried out her words, and marched straight up to the wolf, while Bihan stayed behind and cried,—
"Go, go, my friends; don't be afraid! Ah! but for my stiff leg, I would soon finish the wolf, for I am the strongest and bravest."
Round and round the circle galloped the wolf as quickly as a hunted stag; his eyes darted fire, his tongue was hanging from his mouth. Josserande, seeing the danger that threatened him, wept and cried out,—
"O Bretons! is there among you all not one kind soul to defend the widow's son in the hour when he bitterly expiates his sin?"
"Let us alone, godmother," boldly replied Matheline.
And from afar Pol Bihan added: "Don't listen to the old woman; go!"
But another voice was heard in answer to Dame Josserande's appeal, and it said,—
"As last night, we are here!"
Standing in front of Matheline and barring the passage were two ragged beggars, with their wallets, leaning upon their staffs. Josserande recognized the two poor men who had so charitably aided her the night before; and one of them, who had snow-white hair and beard, said,—
"My brethren, why do you interfere in this? God rewards and punishes. This poor man-wolf is not a damned soul, but one expiating a great crime. Leave justice to God, if you do not wish some great misfortune to happen to you."
And Josserande, who was kneeling down, said imploringly,—
"Listen, listen to the saint!"
But from behind, Pol Bihan cried out,—
"Since when have beggars been allowed to preach sermons? Ah! if it were not for my stiff leg.... Kill him, kill him!... wolf! wolf!"
"Wolf! wolf!" repeated Matheline, who tried to drive off the old beggar with her pitchfork. But the fork broke like glass in her hands as it touched the poor man's tatters, and at the same time twenty voices cried,—
"The wolf! the wolf! Where has the wolf gone?"
Soon it was seen where the wolf had gone. A black mass dashed through the crowd, and Pol Bihan uttered a horrible cry,—
"Help! help! Matheline!"
You have often heard the noise made by a dog when crunching a bone. This was the noise they heard, but louder, as though there were many dogs crunching many bones. And a strange voice, like the growling of a wolf, said,—
"The strength of a man is a dainty morsel for a wolf to eat. Bihan, traitor, I eat your strength!"
The black mass again bounded through the terrified crowd, his bloody tongue hanging from his mouth, his eyes darting fire.
This time it was from Matheline that a scream still more horrible than that of Pol's was heard; and again there was the noise of another terrible feast, and the voice of the wild beast, which had already spoken, growled,—
"The pearls of a smile make a dainty morsel for a wolf to eat. Matheline, serpent that stung my heart, seek for your beauty. I have eaten it!"