“You will have a charming day,” said Madame Hellard, as we prepared to set out the next morning.  “I do not even recommend umbrellas.  It is the sort of wind that in Brittany never brings rain.”

Our only objection was that there was rather too much of it.

Declining the omnibus, which rattled over the stones and was more or less of a sarcophagus, without its repose, we mounted the interminable Jacob’s Ladder, and glanced in at our Antiquarian’s.  He was absent this morning; had gone a little way into the country, where he had heard of some Louis XIV. furniture that was to be sold by the Prior of an old Abbey:  though how so much that was luxurious and worldly had ever entered an abbey seemed a mystery.

We were soon en route for Landerneau, our destination as far as the train was concerned.  The line, picturesque and diversified, passed through a narrow wooded valley where ran the river Elorn.  On the left was the extensive forest of Brezal; and in the small wood of Pont-Christ, an interesting sixteenth century chapel faced an ancient and romantic windmill.  Close to this was a large pond, surrounded by rugged rocks and firs; altogether a wild and beautiful scene.  Soon after, through the trees, we discerned the graceful open spire of the Church of La Roche, and then, upon rugged height above the railway, the ruins of the ancient Castle of la Roche-Maurice, called by the Breton peasants round about, in their broad dialect, “la Ro’ch Morvan.”  It was founded by Maurice, King of the Bretons, about the year 800, and was demolished about 1490, during the war Charles VIII. waged against Anne of Brittany.  Very little of the ruin remains, excepting a square donjon and a portion of the exterior walls and the four towers.

Finally came Landerneau, and the train continued its way towards Brest without us.

We found the old town well worth exploring.  It is situated on the Elorn, or the river of Landerneau, as it is more often called.  The stream is fairly broad here, and divides the town into two parts.  It is spanned by an old bridge, bordered by a double row of ancient and gabled houses; and rising out of the stream, like a small island or a moated grange, is an old Gothic water mill, remarkably beautiful and picturesque.  This little scene alone is worth a journey to Landerneau.  A Gothic inscription, which has been placed in a house not far off, declares that the old mill was built by the Rohans in 1510; and was no doubt devoted to higher uses than the grinding of corn.

There are many old houses, many quaint and curious bits of architecture in Landerneau.  On one of these, bearing the date of 1694, we found two curious sculptures:  a lion rampant and a man armed with a drawn sword; and, between them, the inscription:  TIRE, TVE.  We might, indeed, have gone up and down the street armed with sword, gun, or any other murderous weapon, with impunity—­there was nothing to fight but the air.  We had it all to