In the days of Gildas the Wise, intense silence always reigned at night
through the dense oak forest of the Armorican country. One of the most
lonely places was Cæsar's camp, the name was given to the huge masses of
stone that encumbered the barren heath; and it was the common opinion
that the pagan giants, supposed to be buried under them, rose from their
graves at midnight and roamed up and down the long avenues, watching for
the late passers-by, to twist their necks.
This night, however,--the night after Christmas,--many persons could be
seen, about eleven o'clock, on the heath before the stones of Carnac,
all around the Great Basin or circle, whose irregular outline was
clearly visible by moonlight. The enclosure was entirely empty. Outside
no one was seen, it is true; but many could be heard gabbling in the
shadow of the high rocks, under the shelter of the stumps of oaks, even
in the tufts of thorny brambles; and all this assemblage watched for
something, and that something was the wolf, Sylvestre Ker. They had come
from Plouharnel, and also from Lannelar, from Carnac, from Kercado, even
from the old town of Crach, beyond La Trinité.
Who had brought together all these people, young and old, men and women?
The legend does not say; but very probably Matheline had strewn around
the cruel pearls of her laughter, and Pol Bihan had not been slow to
relate what he had seen after the midnight Mass.
By some means or other, the entire country around for five or six
leagues knew that the son of Martin Ker, the tenant of the abbey, had
become a man-wolf, and that he was doomed to expiate his crime in the
spot haunted by the phantoms,--the Great Basin of the Pagans, between
the tower and the Druid stones.
Many of the watchers had never seen a man-wolf, and there reigned in the
crowd, scattered in invisible groups, a fever of curiosity, terror, and
impatience; the minutes lengthened as they passed, and it seemed as
though midnight, stopped on the way, would never come.
There were at that time no clocks in the neighborhood to mark the hour,
but the matin-bell of the convent of Ruiz gave notice that the
wished-for moment had arrived.
While waiting there was busy conversation: they spoke of the man-wolf,
of phantoms, and also of betrothals, for the rumor was spread that the
bans of Matheline du Coat-Dor, the promised bride of Sylvestre Ker, with
the strong Pol Bihan, who had never found a rival in the
wrestling-field, would be published on the following Sunday; and I leave
you to imagine how Matheline's laughter ran in pearly cascades when
congratulated on her approaching marriage.
By the road which led up to the tower a shadow slowly descended; it was
not the wolf, but a poor woman in mourning, whose head was bent upon her
breast, and who held in her hand an object that shone like a mirror, and
the brilliant surface of which reflected the moonbeams.
"It is Josserande Ker!" was whispered around the circle, behind the
rocks, in the brambles, and under the stumps of the oaks.
"'Tis the widow of the armed keeper of the great door!"
"'Tis the mother of the wolf, Sylvestre Ker!"
"She also has come to see...."
"But what has she in her hand?"
Twenty voices asked the question. Matheline, who had good eyes, and such
beautiful ones, replied,--
"It looks like an axe.... Happy am I to be rid of those two, the mother
and son! With them I could never laugh."