"But _I_ reckon it . . . _Tenez_, that will be Ile Vierge--there,
with the lighthouse standing white--as it were, beneath the cliffs;
but the cliffs belong in fact to the mainland. . . . And now in a few
minutes we come abreast of _my_ parish--the Ile Lezan. . . . See,
see!" He caught my arm as the tide raced us down through the Passage
du Four. "My church--how her spire stands up!" He turned to me, his
voice shaking with emotion. "You English are accustomed to travel.
Probably you do not guess, monsieur, with what feelings I see again
Ile Lezan--I, who have never crossed the Channel before nor indeed
have visited any foreign land. But I am glad: it spreads the mind."
Here he put his hands together and drew them apart as though
extending a concertina. "I have seen you English at home.
If monsieur, who is on tour, could only spare the time to visit me on
Ile Lezan!"

Well, the end of it was that before we parted on the quay at Brest I
found myself under half a promise, and a week later, having (as I put
it to myself) nothing better to do, I took the train to a little
wind-swept terminus, whence a ramshackle cart jolted me to Port
Lezan, on the coast, whence again by sail and oar a ferry-boat
conveyed me over to the Island.

My friend the Cure greeted me with something not far short of
ecstasy.

"But this is like you English--you keep your word. . . . You will
hardly believe," he confided, as I shared his admirable dejeuner--
soup, langouste, an incomparable omelet, stuffed veal, and I forget
what beside--"you will hardly believe with what difficulty I bring
myself back to this horizon." He waved a hand to the blue sea-line