ract of land covered with furze
(ajonc), which, in Brittany, grows from five to six feet high, forming a
solid impenetrable mass. Huge blocks of granite are scattered about in
every direction, jutting out from among the furze--menhirs, cromlechs, and
dolmens--a perfect wilderness of Celtic remains. We drove over an extent of
several miles of furze-covered hills and heathy land. Before we reached
the village of Tregunc we stopped to see a large dolmen on the side of the
road, and further to the right a rocking-stone, twelve feet long and nine
feet thick, standing about fifteen feet from the ground, the second
largest in Brittany. It is poised by a little projection, like an inverted
cone, upon another rock lying half-buried in the ground. The upper block
can easily be set in motion by the hand. It is called by the country
people "La pierre aux maris trompes," and was formerly consulted by
husbands to test the fidelity of their wives. Even now the partner of a
faithless wife is said to be incapable of giving to the stone the rocking
motion it so easily receives from another.

[Illustration: 31. Rocking Stone. Tregunc.]

On the left we passed the majestic ruins of the castle of Rustephan,
_i. e._ Run, mound, of Stephen, having been built by Stephen Count of
Penthievre at the beginning of the twelfth century. It belonged in the
thirteenth to Blanche of Castile, the mother of St. Louis. The present
edifice dates from the fifteenth. One of the sides remaining has a
cylindrical tower with pinnacled doorway, and the windows have stone
mullions.

[Illustration: 32. Chateau of Rustephan.]

Pursuing our road through blocks of granite, we descended into the valley
of Pontaven, the town of millers, according to the old saying--

"Pont Aven, ville de renom;
Quatorze moulins, deux maisons;"

a little port built upon rocks, at the foot of two elevated mountains,
over which are scattered masses of granite boulders, obstructing the
course of the river which bounds over them. The banks are lined with woody
slopes; wooden bridges cross the river at intervals; mills are established
on the ledges of the rocks on its sides; and the noise of the mills, with
that of the sparkling river tumbling through the rocks in waterfalls, keep
up a perpetual din. Pontaven is celebrated for the quantity of its salmon:
so much is taken, that it used to be said that the millers fattened their
pigs upon this fish, which was literally true, as