Sitting gloomily over the Jurancon wine, and looking at the fire, I saw a huge cauldron put on, and presently the steam of soup began to steal into the room. Martin and Jeanne were holding confidential intercourse, which ended in my squire's coming to me, and announcing that there was to be held a grand _épeluche_ of the Indian corn, and that the soup was to form the supper of the work-people. Presently, sure enough, a vast pile of maize in the husk was brought up, and heaped upon the floor; and as the dusk gathered, massive iron candlesticks with tapers which were rather rushlights than otherwise, were set in due order around the grain. Then in laughing parties, drenched but merry, the neighbours poured in--men, women, and children--and vast was the clatter of tongues in Bernais, as they squatted themselves down on stools and on the floor, and began to strip off the husks of the yellow heads of corn, flinging the peeled grain into coarse baskets set for the purpose. The old people deposited themselves on settles in the vast chimney-nook; and amongst them there was led to a seat a tall blind man, with grizzly grey hair, and a mild smiling face. "Ask that man to tell you a story about any of the old castles or towns hereabouts," whispered Martin; "he knows them all--all the traditions, and legends, and superstitions of Bearne." This council was good. So, as soon as the whole roomful were at work--stripping and peeling--and moistening their labours by draughts of the valley vine--I proceeded to be introduced to the patriarch, but, ere I had made my way to him: "Pere Bruniqul," said a good-humoured looking matron; "you know you always give us one of your tales to ease our work, and so now start off, and here is the wine-flask to wet your lips." All this, and the story which followed, was spoken in Bernais, so that to M. Martin I am indebted for the outlines of the tale, which I treat as I did that of the Baron of the Chateau de Chatel-morant:-- * * * * * "Sir Roger d'Espaigne," said the lady of the knight she addressed--holding in her hand the hand of their daughter Adele, a girl of six or seven years of age--"where do you hunt to day?" "Marry," replied her husband, "in the domains of the Dame of Clargues. There are more bears there than anywhere in the country." "But you know that the Dame of Clargues loves her bears, and would not that they should be hurt; and besides, she is a sorceress, and can turn men into animals, if she will. Oh, she practices cunning magic; and she is also a wehr-wolf; and once, when Leopold of Tarbes struck a wolf with an arblast bolt, and broke its right fore-leg, the Dame of Clargues appeared with her right-arm in bandages, and Leopold of Tarbes died within the year."