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Sylvestre Ker's little finger was worth two dozen Pol Bihan's and fifty Matheline's; in spite of which Matheline and Pol Bihan were perfectly just in their contempt, for he who ascends the highest falls lowest. When Sylvestre had re-entered the tower, Pol commenced to sigh heavily, and said, "What a pity! What a great, great pity!" "What is a pity?" asked Sylvestre Ker.

What Matheline loved most was her own fair self, and Pol Bihan's best friend was named Pol Bihan. Matheline passed long hours before her little mirror of polished steel, which faithfully reflected her laughing mouth full of pearls; and Pol was proud of his great strength, for he was the best wrestler in the Carnac country.

"I wish," said I sincerely, "that there were fewer proverbs in Brittany." We were in sight of the forest now; across the gorse I could see the sparkle of gendarmes' trappings, and the glitter of Le Bihan's silver-buttoned jacket. The hedge was low and we took it without difficulty, and trotted across the moor to where Le Bihan and Durand stood gesticulating.

They lie piled up in the gravel pit on the edge of Le Bihan's wheat field. The men are at work yet. Le Bihan is going to stop them." "Let's go over," said I; and I picked up my gun and started across the cliffs, Portin on one side, Môme on the other. "Who has the list?" I asked, lighting my pipe. "You say there is a list?" "The list was found rolled up in a brass cylinder," said the chemist.