"Yes, yes, we shall see some sport . . . . It'll be great fun . . . . I have a cross of gold hung round my neck . . . and another cut into the skin of my head . . . . Look! . . . Crosses everywhere . . . . One ought to be comfortable on the cross . . . . One ought to sleep well there . . . ."
"Shut up, will you, you old fool?" repeated Gertrude, giving her a box on the ear.
"All right, all right! . . . But it's they who'll hit you; I see them hiding! . . ."
The path, which was pretty rough at first, reached the table-land formed by the west cliffs, which were loftier, but less rugged and worn away than the others. The woods were scarcer; and the oaks were all bent by the wind from the sea.
"We are coming to the heath which they call the Black Heath," said Clémence Archignat.
"They live underneath."
Véronique once more shrugged her shoulders:
"How do you know?"
"We know more than other people," said Gertrude. "They call us witches; and there's something in it. Maguennoc himself, who knew a great deal, used to ask our advice about anything that had to do with healing, lucky stones, the herbs you gather on St. John's Eve . . ."
"Mugwort and vervain," chuckled the madwoman. "They are picked at sunset."