"What's the matter with them?" demanded Trehearne.
"The peasant folks have long memories. They don't understand what it is
they remember, only that evil things once happened to them, because of
us."
"What sort of evil things?"
"Have there been any new ones since the beginning?" Her voice held a
dry humor. Trehearne had to admit there hadn't been. From the stealing
away of maidens to witchcraft, family legends tended to a wearying
sameness.
"However," he added, "the Kerrels and the Cahusacs both must have been
outstanding in their field, judging from the reception they gave us
back there."
He stopped. They were far from the crowd now. The walled island city
bulked huge and dark, a medieval shadow against the night and the sea.
The girl was a white wraith in the gloom, all astir with the salt
wind that tumbled her hair and set her skirts to rippling. He did not
speak to her, but stood there silently, trying to see her face in the
starlight. After a while she asked him,
"What is in your mind?"
"I am waiting to see if you will vanish like the other Kerrel."
She laughed. "Kerrel is a rude man. I have offered myself to make
amends. Surely you can't be angry now!"
It was his turn to laugh. "No. In fact, I'm thankful for your--by the
way, what relation is he to you?"
"None."
"But you said--"
"It was a small lie, and it served its purpose."
"Well, anyway, I'm thankful for Kerrel's rudeness. I'd much rather
talk to you!" His ill-humor was quite gone. He took her hand, and was
amazed to find how strong it was. The girl seemed to radiate an immense
vitality, an aliveness that made all the other women of his knowing
appear like half-awakened clods.
"What do they call you," he asked, "who are _not_ a Kerrel?"
"Shairn."
"That doesn't sound Breton."
"Doesn't it? My other name is even more unusual. It's unpronounceable,
and means _of the Silver Tower_."
Her eyes were very bright in the starshine. He thought that in some
secret way she was mocking him, but he did not care. He said, "I'll
stick to Shairn." They had started down the path again. He told her his
own name, and she asked,
"You are American?"
"Fourth generation."
"From Brittany to Cornwall to America," she murmured, as though
to herself. "The years, the generations, the mingling of other
strains--and still the Vardda blood breeds true! Michael, you're
wonderful!"
He repeated the word _Vardda_, wonderingly.
"A tribal name. You've never heard it." She laughed with pure delight.
"You're incredible. No wonder Kerrel made a mistake! Listen, Michael.
You wonder about your family, your race. Oh, yes, I heard all that.
Well, perhaps I'll tell you--or again, perhaps I won't! There's
a little cove beyond the lighthouse. I'll meet you there, in the
morning."