For a few minutes Gwennola’s heart sank; in spite of a rapid but careful search, the possibility of a human presence anywhere in the neighbourhood of that rough pile of stones seemed impossible. But once again Gloire was to come to her assistance, and retrieve his lost character, which he seemed to feel instinctively had seriously suffered in the late encounter,—though why he should be reproached for thus ridding the world of one whom canine sagacity had recognised as a black-hearted villain, he could not altogether realize. Nevertheless, the sound of his mistress’s reproving voice had damped poor Gloire’s self-congratulations, and he had followed her with drooping tail and melancholy mien towards the reputed home of the mischievous dwarfs. Here, however, his spirit of inquiry was freshly aroused, and with a short yelp of excitement he proceeded to investigate a hole, partly concealed by gorse, partly by a slab of stone which had apparently slipped from the pile near. Attracted by his excitement, Gwennola ran to his side, and, after some moments of desperate tugging and pulling, succeeded in rolling the stone aside. Yes! the dead man’s clue was a true one; the opening obviously led into one of those natural caves so often found in Brittany. Gloire, with cocked ears and wagging tail, stood by the side of the aperture, evidently only awaiting his mistress’s bidding to continue his investigations. But Gwennola waved him back, and, bending low, looked down eagerly into the darkness. "Yvon," she called softly, her voice trembling as she pronounced the long-unused name, "Yvon—brother—are you there?" In the silence that followed she could hear only the panting of Gloire’s breath close to her ear. "Yvon," she cried again, "Yvon." Then faint but clear came back the answer, in the voice of a man who answers as in a trance— "Gwennola." "Mother of Mercies, I thank thee!" cried the girl, tears of joy streaming down her cheeks, as without hesitation she scrambled quickly through the aperture. All was darkness within, although she gathered from the faint glimmer of moonlight at the cave’s mouth that she was in a small subterranean chamber. In breathless suspense she called her brother’s name again, and this time the reply came from somewhere close beside her, almost, it would seem, at her feet. But still the voice which spoke upwards through the darkness was that of a man who speaks as one who replies rather to some inward call than answering to his name from the lips of a fellow-creature. "Where art thou, Yvon?" cried Gwennola, sinking on her knees and spreading forth her hands vaguely in the darkness. "Brother, brother, is it indeed thou?" "Gwennola—my sister." This time the voice beside her rang with a sudden feeble exultation, as of one who, for the first time, realized that his name had verily been pronounced by a denizen of earth. "Gwennola, Gwennola! nay, it is impossible. Hence, mocking demon, and taunt me not in my last hours!"