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"Well, mes enfants," exclaimed old Adrian Bannalec, pulling a turnip-shaped watch from beneath his blouse and holding it up to the firelight, "it's twelve o'clock and time to turn in. But what do you say to a cup of chocolate first?"
"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?"
"Come, come, Le Bihan," I said impatiently, "translate it, won't you? You and Max Fortin make a lot of mystery out of nothing, it seems." Le Bihan went to the edge of the pit where the three Bannalec men were digging, gave an order or two in Breton, and turned to me.
"It's like all the others," he repeated, wiping his glasses on his handkerchief. "I thought you might care to see one of the skulls, so I brought this over from the gravel pit. The men from Bannalec are digging yet. They ought to stop." "How many skulls are there altogether?" I inquired. "They found thirty-eight skulls; there are thirty-nine noted in the list.
"He will not care to venture in here again, I think, Monsieur Darrel." I went back and found Lys seated quietly at the table. "The soup is ready, dear," she said. "Don't worry; it was only some foolish lout from Bannalec. No one in St. Gildas or St. Julien would do such a thing."
The others greeted the suggestion with approval, and going somewhere underneath the grandstand, Bannalec produced a pot filled with water, which he suspended with much dexterity over the fire upon the end of a pointed stick.
The water began to boil almost immediately, and they were on the point of breaking their chocolate into it when, from what appeared to be an immense distance, through the air there came a curious rumble. "What was that?" muttered Bannalec. The sound was followed within a few seconds by another, and after a similar interval by a third and fourth.
As I came to the edge of the pit the Bannalec men were removing a square piece of sailcloth from what appeared to be a pile of cobblestones. "Look!" said Le Bihan shrilly. I looked. The pile below was a heap of skulls. After a moment I clambered down the gravel sides of the pit and walked over to the men of Bannalec.
Oh, little son of Marie-Josephine! I told thee I warned thee of the stranger in Finistère!... Marie holy intercede!... All all are born to grief in Finistère!..." The incredible rumour that German airmen were in Brittany first came from Plouharnel in Morbihan; then from Bannalec, where an old Icelander had notified the Brigadier of the local Gendarmerie. But the Icelander was very drunk.
"Aristide Le Bihan," I said angrily, "and you, Max Fortin, I've got enough of this nonsense! Some foolish lout from Bannalec has been in St. Gildas playing tricks to frighten old fools like you. If you have nothing better to talk about than nursery legends I'll wait until you come to your senses. Good-morning." And I walked out, more disturbed than I cared to acknowledge to myself.
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