Yes, Père Mouet would sleep well under the shadow of the cross.
They left him there, resting so peacefully after a very hard and lonely life, and the moonbeams, falling softly on his closed eyelids, seemed to kiss away the deep lines of care and sorrow, which he had borne so bravely, and leave only beauty behind. The night-wind sang his requiem as it swept wailing over the moors. It might rather have been the lament of many in Kérnak, who that night had lost a friend.
*****
It was, indeed, a long and weary walk to the coast.
Yet none of the three travellers who wended their way across the moor complained.
It was the inevitable, which must be conquered by resignation.
Yet at last they paused to look around them and wonder, in but half-framed whispers, whether they were coming the right way.
Père Mouet was an unerring guide; without him difficulties presented themselves more forcibly every moment.
It was no easy task, indeed, to keep to a right track across that almost trackless lande.
Gorse-bushes made but poor landmarks, and there were neither trees nor hillocks near to guide them.