"Thou art forgotten," murmured another voice. "I died forty years after
thee and men remember not so long in Finisterre. But thy son was my
friend and I remember that he paid the money."

"And my son, what of him? Is he, too, here?"

"Nay; he lies deep in the northern sea. It was his second voyage, and
he had returned with a purse for the young wife, the first time. But he
returned no more, and she washed in the river for the dames of Croisac,
and by-and-by she died. I would have married her, but she said it was
enough to lose one husband. I married another, and she grew ten years in
every three that I went to the _grande pêche_. Alas for Brittany, she
has no youth!"

"And thou? Wert thou an old man when thou camest here?"

"Sixty. My wife came first, like many wives. She lies here. Jeanne!"

"Is't thy voice, my husband? Not the Lord Jesus Christ's? What miracle
is this? I thought that terrible sound was the trump of doom."

"It could not be, old Jeanne, for we are still in our graves. When the
trump sounds we shall have wings and robes of light, and fly straight up
to heaven. Hast thou slept well?"

"Ay! But why are we awakened? Is it time for purgatory? Or have we been
there?"

"The good God knows. I remember nothing. Art frightened? Would that I
could hold thy hand, as when thou didst slip from life into that long