Meantime, Jean Marcille proved to have as soft and winning a tongue in speech as in song, and so Marie Alloadec found, as she sat busily employed in her needlework, whilst the minstrel sat on the wide ledge beside her with crossed legs and a face bent perhaps a little nearer to Marie’s swiftly flying needle than was judicious. He was telling her of his home, near the wild and mournful Cape Raz, and from time to time Marie would allow her work to fall as she listened to the graphic descriptions of that dreary and romantic coast. The very name of Raz causes the trembling sailor to pray aloud to his patron saints as he thinks of the time when his boat must glide by the red rocks where the hell of Plogoff yearns for its prey. No wonder the Breton proverbs say, "None pass the Raz without hurt or fright," and "Help me, great God, at Cape Raz;—my ship is so small, and the sea is so great." A terrible dwelling-place this, with a brooding fear in the air and a melancholy mingled with every legend and fancy which haunts the coast around. Far away there beyond Dead Man’s Bay lies the island of Sein, a desolate sandbank inhabited by a few compassionate families, who yearly strive to save the shipwrecked mariners. This[#] island was the abode of the sacred virgins, who gave the Celts fine weather or shipwreck. There they celebrated their gloomy and murderous orgies; and the seamen heard with terror, far off at sea, the clash of the barbaric cymbals. Yonder, too, watchers may see two ravens flying heavily on the shore: they are the souls of the dread King Grallo and his daughter; whilst the shrill whistling, which one would take for the voice of the tempest, is the _crierien_, or ghosts of the shipwrecked, clamouring for burial. [#] See Michelet’s _History of France_. "But see," Marie exclaimed, with great eyes grown even greater with wonder and awe as she listened to the wild tales which Marcille poured into her ears, "they are gloomy, these tales, and very terrible; and yet, how is it that you laugh and are gay, and have altogether the air of joy and happiness?" "A good conscience," quoth Jean lightly, as with absent fingers he twanged the strings of his vielle. "Also, mademoiselle, perchance the good gift of my mother, who came from laughing Touraine, where all sing and are gay, and where the waters of the Loire dance with the happy sunshine, instead of being grey with melancholy, as here in Brittany." "Of Touraine?" questioned Marie, dropping her voice, whilst her bright eyes searched curiously the dark, smiling face of the minstrel. "And thy mother came from Touraine? But that perchance was long since, and thou hast never journeyed so far?" "I?" laughed Jean Marcille. "Nay, mademoiselle, a minstrel wanders oft in many lands, and I have seen not only the orchards and meadows of Touraine, but the blue skies of Italy, and the white mountains of Switzerland in my day."