But that was one thing; and the wild extravagance of the story was another. There must be, of course, an explanation for these phenomena other than a supernatural one. Such things do not happen except in medieval romance and tales of sorcery and doom. And of all regions on earth Brittany swarms with such tales and superstitions. He knew it. And this young girl was Bretonne after all, however educated, however accomplished, however honest and modern and sincere. And he began to comprehend that the germs of superstition and credulity were in the blood of every Breton ever born. But he merely said with pleasant deference: "I can very easily understand your uneasiness and perplexity, Madame. It is a time of mental stress, of great nervous tension in France--of heart-racking suspense----" She lifted her dark eyes. "You do not believe me, Monsieur." "I believe what you have told me. But I believe, also, that there is a natural explanation concerning these matters." "I tell myself so, too.... But I brood over them in vain; I can find no explanation." "Of course there must be one," he insisted carelessly. "Is there anything in the world more likely to go queer than a clock?" "There are five clocks in the house. Why should they all go wrong at the same time and in the same manner?" He smiled. "I don’t know," he said frankly. "I’ll investigate, if you will permit me." "Of course.... And, about L’Ombre. What could explain its presence in the moat? It is a creature of icy waters; it is extremely limited in its range. My father has often said that, except L’Ombre which has appeared at long intervals in our moat, L’Ombre never has been seen in Brittany." "From where does this clear water come which fills the moat?" he asked, smiling. "From living springs in the bottom." "No doubt," he said cheerfully, "a long subterranean vein of water connects these springs with some distant Alpine river, somewhere--in the Pyrenees, perhaps--" He hesitated, for the explanation seemed as far-fetched as the water. Perhaps it so appeared to her, for she remained politely silent. Suddenly, in the house, a clock struck five times. They both sat listening intently. From the depths of the ancient mansion, the other clocks repeated the strokes, first one, then another, then two sounding their clear little bells almost in unison. All struck five. He drew out his watch and looked at it. The hour was three in the afternoon. After a moment her attitude, a trifle rigid, relaxed. He muttered something about making an examination of the clocks, adding that to adjust and regulate them would be a simple matter. She sat very still beside him on the stone coping--her dark eyes wandered toward the forest--wonderful eyes, dreamily preoccupied--the visionary eyes of a Bretonne, full of the mystery and beauty of magic things unseen.