He caught her rather roughly by the arm, but she pulled away and shouted something at the old man, still laughing, still mocking, and he thought again that she was changeling and no ordinary girl. The words she spoke might have been Gaelic, but they had a different sound. Whatever they were, they held no kindness. Trehearne thrust his way through the sightseers, who parted readily to let him through, and in a minute the girl came after him. The voice of the old man followed them down the slope of the hill, and the curious tourists stared after them until they were out of sight. The girl said, "Are you still angry?" "What's the matter with them?" demanded Trehearne. "The peasant folks have long memories. They don't understand what it is they remember, only that evil things once happened to them, because of us." "What sort of evil things?" "Have there been any new ones since the beginning?" Her voice held a dry humor. Trehearne had to admit there hadn't been. From the stealing away of maidens to witchcraft, family legends tended to a wearying sameness. "However," he added, "the Kerrels and the Cahusacs both must have been outstanding in their field, judging from the reception they gave us back there." He stopped. They were far from the crowd now. The walled island city bulked huge and dark, a medieval shadow against the night and the sea. The girl was a white wraith in the gloom, all astir with the salt wind that tumbled her hair and set her skirts to rippling. He did not speak to her, but stood there silently, trying to see her face in the starlight. After a while she asked him, "What is in your mind?" "I am waiting to see if you will vanish like the other Kerrel." She laughed. "Kerrel is a rude man. I have offered myself to make amends. Surely you can't be angry now!" It was his turn to laugh. "No. In fact, I'm thankful for your--by the way, what relation is he to you?" "None." "But you said--" "It was a small lie, and it served its purpose." "Well, anyway, I'm thankful for Kerrel's rudeness. I'd much rather talk to you!" His ill-humor was quite gone. He took her hand, and was amazed to find how strong it was. The girl seemed to radiate an immense vitality, an aliveness that made all the other women of his knowing appear like half-awakened clods. "What do they call you," he asked, "who are _not_ a Kerrel?" "Shairn." "That doesn't sound Breton." "Doesn't it? My other name is even more unusual. It's unpronounceable, and means _of the Silver Tower_." Her eyes were very bright in the starshine. He thought that in some secret way she was mocking him, but he did not care. He said, "I'll stick to Shairn." They had started down the path again. He told her his own name, and she asked, "You are American?" "Fourth generation." "From Brittany to Cornwall to America," she murmured, as though to herself. "The years, the generations, the mingling of other strains--and still the Vardda blood breeds true! Michael, you're wonderful!"