chapel near St-Lô -- the index finger of St. John the Baptist. Day by day he would kneel before it and murmur to himself, "How marvellous a gift."

One day he rose from his devotions a different man. Admittedly, he was going home; but that did not entirely account for the fullness of his sensations. A mysterious joy, an unearthly exaltation possessed him; he seemed to walk upon air. Free at last from the trammels of service, he set out in the late afternoon towards his beloved Brittany; and, to his surprise, was greeted at the first village through which he passed by a tremendous pealing of church bells, although, as it was soon remarked by the villagers, who turned out in alarm at the din, the belfries were not only empty but had actually been locked up for the night.

Having no explanation ready to hand, the poor Breton was arrested and thrust into a dark and noisome dungeon. Yet here, even, his good spirits did not forsake him. He was soon sleeping peacefully, dreaming of his native village of Plougasnou and the joys that there attended him, of the broad hillside of Traoun-Mériadek, of the blue sweep of the Channel round the peninsula of Primel. It was a dream alluring enough to a captive; and when he awoke he was astonished beyond words to find the dream a reality. He actually was within a stone's throw of his home, sitting upon the uplands of his native village in the glory of an autumn morning. Of his prison no trace remained. And as he looked and listened, the church bells began to call.

Down the hillside he raced, and into the familiar village church, where the congregation was assembled.

[31]

A moment later he was on his knees in an outpouring of gratitude for his safe deliverance and return. In ecstasy his hands clutched each other. And as they did so, one of them was slowly opened, as by a gigantic vice wrenching finger from finger. The flesh was torn bloodlessly apart and suddenly there flew from the gaping wound, across the church and on to the cloth of the high altar, a small, discoloured something. All the candles in the building shot into brilliant flame, and bells and organ swelled into a joyous paean.

That something was the index finger of St. John the Baptist, for which the peasant had yearned with such steadfastness. Unable, it appeared, to contemplate separation from an admirer so constant, the precious relic had hidden itself, unknown to him, between the skin and the flesh of his hand. With him it had journeyed from St-Lô and had rescued him from his perils. And at St-Jean it and the great Saint to whom it belonged have been honoured ever since.