This evening there is a strange tranquillity round the chapel. The wooded horizons, stretching out into the distance, are very peaceful, as if they were about to fall asleep. It seems also that it might be the evening of our own life, and that all that we had to do now was to rest here for ever, watching the night descend on the Breton countrysides, to let ourselves sink gently into this sleep of nature. "All the same," says Yves, very thoughtful, "I feel sure that it will be to somewhere over there (_over there_ means Plouherzel) that I shall return when I get old, so that they may lay me near Kergrist Chapel; you know, where I showed you? Yes, I am sure I shall find my way there to die." Kergrist Chapel, in the district of Goëlo, under a lowering sky; the sea-water lake, and, in the middle, the granite islets, the great squatting beast asleep on the grey plain. . . . I can see the place now, as it appeared to me, many years ago already, on a winter's day. And I remember that there is Yves' native land, there is the earth which awaits him. When he is far away at sea, at night, in hours of danger, there is the grave of which he dreams. "Yves, my dear brother, we are two great children, I assure you. Often very merry when there is no cause, here now we are sad and talking nonsense at a moment when peace and happiness by rare good fortune have come to us. I doubt very much if the newness of the experience is sufficient excuse. "For who to look at us would imagine we were capable of dreaming these foolish things in our waking hours, simply because the night is falling and there is stillness in the woods? "Think of it! We are neither of us more than thirty-two years old. Before us yet there should be many more years of life, years that will be filled with travel, with danger, with suffering. To each of us will come sunshine, and beauty, and love . . . and, perhaps, who knows?--between us there may be again scenes, rebellions, struggles!" In many fewer words than there are above all this crossed his dream. And he answered me with an air of sad reproach: "But you know well, brother, that I am altered now, and that there is _one thing_ which is finished for ever. There is no need to speak to me of that." And I grip the hand of my brother Yves trying to smile as one who had completest confidence. The stories of real life ought to be able to be finished at will like the stories in books. . . . THE END End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of A Tale of Brittany, by Pierre Loti