"What is his name?"
"I don't know."
"Don't you?"
A queer expression sprang into his eyes. "One can't remember every peasant brat," he returned evasively.
She considered him silently; then: "Why did you say: 'The very spot'?" she asked.
"Did I? I don't remember. But it's time we were getting back. Come, my Lady!" And Beppo struck his horse smartly.
CHAPTER II
AN ECHO OF THE PAST
Immovable on its granite base, the great rock, or "Mount," as it had been called for centuries, stood some distance from the shore in a vast bay on the northwestern coast of France. To the right, a sweep of sward and marsh stretched seaward, until lost in the distance; to the left, lay the dense Desaurac forest, from which an arm of land, thickly wooded, reached out in seeming endeavor to divide the large bay into two smaller basins. But the ocean, jealous of territory already conquered, twice in twenty-four hours rose to beat heavily on this dark promontory, and, in the angry hiss of the waters, was a reminder of a persistent purpose. Here and there, through the ages, had the shore-line of the bay, as well as the neighboring curvatures of the coast, yielded to the assaults of the sea; the Mount alone, solidly indifferent to blandishment or attack, maintained an unvarying aspect.