ut it was of no use; unconditional
assent failed to pacify her. So she went on for hours; and it cost me
untold pains to earn the brunette's permission to offer her an ice, or
to win one single smile.

CHAPTER IV.

Le Morvan during the Middle Ages--Legendary horrors--Forest of La
Goulotte--La Croix Chavannes--La Croix Mordienne--Hotel de
Chanty--Chateau de Lomervo--A French Bluebeard--Citadel of Lingou.

But I must return from my Andalusian belle to the rugged Le Morvan,--a
patriotic, but, in spite of the broken finger, by no means so
captivating a subject.

In feudal times--indeed, even so late as the last century--the district
was a perfect nest of cut-throats, where no one could venture in safety
for any honest purpose; without roads, and without police; full of dark
caverns and half-demolished castles, affording all kinds of facilities
for retreat and concealment; and thus it became the favourite rendezvous
of the worst and most ferocious characters of those lawless times. It is
widely different now. The hunter or the traveller--a woman or a
child--may ramble through the length and breadth of its forests, equally
in vain hoping for the excitement or fearing the danger of any
adventure, beyond the common one of seeing a wolf or wild boar threading
his way amongst the trees--a matter of no consequence at all. If,
however, you love to collect wild and mournful tales--tales, even, of
horror, with which to rivet the attention of the family group over the
fire in the winter evenings,--stop at every ruined wall over which the
lizard is harmlessly creeping; stop at every massive tower in which the
owl is screeching--at every large isolated stone under which the serpent
is hissing; linger along each tortuous path, and your peasant guide will
tell you a tradition for each--for all.

Thus, for instance: you are perhaps a few paces in front of him, in the
forest of La Goulotte; and as the mid-day sun glances through the boughs
above you, you see its rays rest upon a cross at a little distance; it
was, you think, placed there for the rude worshippers of the province,
and you contemplate it with complacent reverence, till Pierre comes up
with you. "'Tis La Croix Chavannes, Monsieur, _la croix sinistre_. See!
in the narrow pass between the two mountains, its black and moss-covered
arms extended; at the end of each is a large knob, resembling a
threatening hand." You walk on, and find the cross riddled w