"The fort," said the mayor, "was built by Louis XIV, and was dismantled twice by the English. Louis XV restored it in 1730. In 1760 it was carried by assault by the English. They came across from the island of Groix--three shiploads, and they stormed the fort and sacked St. Julien yonder, and they started to burn St. Gildas--you can see the marks of their bullets on my house yet; but the men of Bannalec and the men of Lorient fell upon them with pike and scythe and blunderbuss, and those who did not run away lie there below in the gravel pit now--thirty-eight of them." "And the thirty-ninth skull?" I asked, finishing my cigarette. The mayor had succeeded in filling his pipe, and now he began to put his tobacco pouch away. "The thirty-ninth skull," he mumbled, holding the pipe stem between his defective teeth--"the thirty-ninth skull is no business of mine. I have told the Bannalec men to cease digging." "But what is--whose is the missing skull?" I persisted curiously. The mayor was busy trying to strike a spark to his tinder. Presently he set it aglow, applied it to his pipe, took the prescribed four puffs, knocked the ashes out of the bowl, and gravely replaced the pipe in his pocket. "The missing skull?" he asked. "Yes," said I, impatiently. The mayor slowly unrolled the scroll and began to read, translating from the Breton into French. And this is what he read: "ON THE CLIFFS OF ST. GILDAS, APRIL 13, 1760. "On this day, by order of the Count of Soisic, general in chief of the Breton forces now lying in Kerselec Forest, the bodies of thirty-eight English soldiers of the 27th, 50th, and 72d regiments of Foot were buried in this spot, together with their arms and equipments." The mayor paused and glanced at me reflectively. "Go on, Le Bihan," I said.