"The list was made out on thick yellow paper; the brass tube has preserved it. It is as fresh to-day as it was in 1760. You shall see it." "Is that the date?" "The list is dated 'April, 1760.' The Brigadier Durand has it. It is not written in French." "Not written in French!" I exclaimed. "No," replied Fortin solemnly, "it is written in Breton." "But," I protested, "the Breton language was never written or printed in 1760." "Except by priests," said the chemist. "I have heard of but one priest who ever wrote the Breton language," I began. Fortin stole a glance at my face. "You mean--the Black Priest?" he asked. I nodded. Fortin opened his mouth to speak again, hesitated, and finally shut his teeth obstinately over the wheat stem that he was chewing. "And the Black Priest?" I suggested encouragingly. But I knew it was useless; for it is easier to move the stars from their courses than to make an obstinate Breton talk. We walked on for a minute or two in silence. "Where is the Brigadier Durand?" I asked, motioning Mome to come out of the wheat, which he was trampling as though it were heather. As I spoke we came in sight of the farther edge of the wheat field and the dark, wet mass of cliffs beyond. "Durand is down there--you can see him; he stands just behind the mayor of St. Gildas." "I see," said I; and we struck straight down, following a sun-baked cattle path across the heather. When we reached the edge of the wheat field, Le Bihan, the mayor of St. Gildas, called to me, and I tucked my gun under my arm and skirted the wheat to where he stood. "Thirty-eight skulls," he said in his thin, high-pitched voice; "there is but one more, and I am opposed to further search. I suppose Fortin told you?" I shook hands with him, and returned the salute of the Brigadier Durand. "I am opposed to further search," repeated Le Bihan, nervously picking at the mass of silver buttons which covered the front of his velvet and broadcloth jacket like a breastplate of scale armor. Durand pursed up his lips, twisted his tremendous mustache, and hooked his thumbs in his saber belt. "As for me," he said, "I am in favor of further search." "Further search for what--for the thirty-ninth skull?" I asked. Le Bihan nodded. Durand frowned at the sunlit sea, rocking like a bowl of molten gold from the cliffs to the horizon. I followed his eyes. On the dark glistening cliffs, silhouetted against the glare of the sea, sat a cormorant, black, motionless, its horrible head raised toward heaven. "Where is that list, Durand?" I asked. The gendarme rummaged in his despatch pouch and produced a brass cylinder about a foot long. Very gravely he unscrewed the head and dumped out a scroll of thick yellow paper closely covered with writing on both sides. At a nod from Le Bihan he handed me the scroll. But I could make nothing of the coarse writing, now faded to a dull brown.