"The nine orders of the kingdom of Heaven, O royal champion of the world!"

'He gave him one.

"The tenth is the order of mankind, O defender of the province !"

'He cast him an apple.

"The imperfect number of the Apostles after sin."

'He flung him one.

"The perfect number of the Apostles after sin, even though they had committed transgression."

'He threw him one.

"The triumph beyond triumphs, and the perfect number, Christ with His Apostles."

"Verily, by St. Barre," said Cathal, "thou'lt devour me if thou pursue me any further." Cathal flung him hide, apples and all, so that there was neither corner nor nook nor floor nor bed that the apples did not reach. They were not nearer to MacConglinne than to all else, but they were the farther from Cathal.'

The next step in the process is to induce Cathal to fast for a day and a night, which MacConglinne accomplishes by begging a boon (as usual exacting pledges for its fulfilment), and then asking Cathal to fast with him. After the fast has been extended to the second night with a three hours' sermon thrown in, MacConglinne prepared a feast of juicy old bacon, and tender corned-beef and full-fleshed wether, and honey in the comb, and English salt on a beautiful polished dish of white silver,' and so well did he play the cook, rubbing the honey and the salt into one piece after another, that 'big as the pieces were that were before the fire, there dropped not to the ground out of these four pieces as much as would quench a spark of a candle; but what there was of relish in them went into their very centre.' Then having given orders to the strongest of the warriors to bind Cathal, he placed the joints before him, and cutting off the juiciest morsels passed them one by one before the King's mouth into his own, and told him, while this vicarious meal proceeded, the vision he had been vouchsafed by St. Mura, the tale of a marvellous land where everything was made of cheese or beef fat, and where it was possible even to be drowned in gravy.

'At the pleasure of the recital and the recounting of these many various pleasant viands, the lawless beast that abode within

Cathal Mac Finguinne came forth, until it was licking its lips outside his head. One time, when one of the pieces was put to the King's mouth, the son of malediction darted forth, fixed his two claws in the piece that was in the student's hand, and taking it with him across the hearth to the other side bore it below the cauldron that was on the other side of the fire. And the cauldron was overturned on him. Some story-tellers relate, however, that it went down the throat of the priest's gillie; but it is not so in the books of Cork, which state that he was put into the cauldron and burned under it. The King was taken to a sleeping chamber, and the great house was emptied 'and burnt afterwards. Next morning the King arose, and what he ate was no more than a child of a month would eat.'

To some readers the somewhat Rabelaisian story of the Land of Fat may be more interesting than the legend upon which it has been grafted; but with most people in this dyspeptic century a little of it will go a long way. Here is a specimen passage: 'Then in the harbour of the lake before me I saw a juicy little coracle of beef fat, with its coating of tallow, with its thwarts of curds, with its prow of lard, with its stern of butter, with its thole pins of marrow, with its oars of flitches of old boar in it. Indeed, she was a sound craft in which we embarked. Then we rowed across the wide expanse of New-milk Lake, through seas of broth, past river-mouths of mead, over swelling boisterous waves of butter-milk, by perpetual pools of gravy, past woods dewy with meat juice, past springs of savoury lard, by islands of cheeses, by hard rocks of rich tallow, by headlands of old curds, along strands of dry cheese; until we reached the firm, level beach between Butter-mount and Milk-lake and Curd-point at the mouth of the pass to the country of O'Early-eating. Every oar we plied in New-milk Lake would send its sea-sand of cheese curd to the surface.'

URBANUS SYLVAN.

THE ISLE OF UNREST.

BY HENRY SETON MERRIMAN,

AUTHOR OF THE SOWERS,'' WITH EDGED TOOLS,''IN KEDAR'S TENTS,' ETC.

Tous les raisonnements des hommes ne valent pas un sentiment d'une femme.

IT would seem that Lory de Vasselot had played the part of a stormy petrel when he visited Paris, for that calm Frenchman, the Baron de Mélide, packed his wife off to Provence the same night, and the letter that Lory wrote to the Abbé Susini, reaching Olmeta three days later, aroused its recipient from a contemplative perusal of the 'Petit Bastiais' as if it had been a bomb-shell.

The abbé threw aside his newspaper and cigarette. He was essentially a man of action. He had been on his feet all day, hurrying hither and thither over his widespread parish, interfering in this man's business and that woman's quarrels with that hastiness which usually characterises the doings of such as pride themselves upon their capability for action and contempt for mere passive thought. It was now evening, and a blessed cool air was stealing down from the mountains. Successive days of unbroken sunshine had burnt all the western side of the island, had almost dried up the Aliso, which crept, a mere rivulet in its stormy bed, towards St. Florent and the sea.

Susini went to the window of his little room and opened the wooden shutters. His house is next to the church at Olmeta and faces north-west; so that in the summer the evening sun glares across the valley into its windows. He was no great scholar, and had but a poor record in the archives of the college at Corte. Lory de Vasselot had written in a hurry, and the letter was a long one. Susini read it once, and was turning it to read again, when, glancing out of the window, he saw Denise cross the Place, and go into the church.

1 Copyright, 1899, by H. S. Scott, in the United States of America.

'Ah!' he said aloud, 'that will save me a long walk.'

Then he read the letter again, with curt nods of the head from time to time, as if Lory were making points or giving minute instructions. He folded the letter, placed it in the pocket of his cassock, and gave himself a smart tap on the chest, as if to indicate that this was the moment and himself the man. He was brisk and full of self-confidence, managing, interfering, commanding, as all true Corsicans are. He took his hat, hardly paused to blow the dust off it, and hurried out into the sunlit Place. He went rather slowly up the church steps, however, for he was afraid of Denise. Her youth, and something spring-like and mystic in her being, disturbed him, made him uneasy and shy; which was perhaps his reason for drawing aside the heavy leather curtain and going into the church, instead of waiting for her outside. He preferred to meet her on his own ground-in the chill air, heavy with the odour of stale incense, and in the dim light of that place where he laid down, in blunt language, his own dim reading of God's law.

He stood just within the curtain, looking at Denise, who was praying on one of the low chairs a few yards away from him; and he was betrayed into a characteristic impatience when she remained longer on her knees than he (as a man) deemed necessary at that moment. He showed his impatience by shuffling with his feet, and still Denise took no notice.

The abbé, by chance or instinct, slipped his hand within his cassock, and drew out the letter which he had just received. The rustle of the thin paper brought Denise to her feet in a moment, facing him.

"The French mail has arrived,' said the priest.

'Yes,' replied Denise, quickly, looking down at his hands.

They were alone in the church, which, as a matter of fact, was never very well attended; and the abbé, who had not that respect for God or man which finds expression in a lowered voice, spoke in his natural tones.

'And I have news which affects you, mademoiselle.'

'I suppose that any news of France must do that,' replied Denise, with some spirit.

'Of course of course,' said the abbé, rubbing his chin with his forefinger, and making a rasping sound on that shaven surface.

He reflected in silence for a moment, and Denise made, in

her turn, a hasty movement of impatience. She had only met the abbé once or twice; and all that she knew of him was the fact that he had an imperious way with him which aroused a spirit of opposition in herself.

'Well, Monsieur l'Abbé,' she said, what is it?'

'It is that Mademoiselle Brun and yourself will have but two hours to prepare for your departure from the Casa Perucca,' he answered. And he drew out a large silver watch, which he consulted with the quiet air of a commander.

Denise glanced at him with some surprise, and then smiled. 'By whose orders, Monsieur l'Abbé?' she inquired with a dangerous gentleness.

Then the priest realised that she meant fight, and all his combativeness leapt, as it were, to meet hers. His eyes flashed in the gloom of the twilit church.

'I, mademoiselle,' he said, with that humility which is naught but an aggravated form of pride. He tapped himself on the chest with such emphasis that a cloud of dust flew out of his cassock, and he blew defiance at her through it. 'I-who speak, take the liberty of making this suggestion. I, the Abbé Susini -and your humble servant.'

Which was not true: for he was no man's servant, and only offered to heaven a half-defiant allegiance. Denise wanted to know the contents of the letter he held crushed within his fingers; so she restrained an impulse to answer him hastily, and merely laughed. The priest thought that he had gained his point.

'I can give you two hours,' he said, 'in which to make your preparations. At seven o'clock I shall arrive at the Casa Perucca with a carriage, in which to conduct Mademoiselle Brun and yourself to St. Florent, where a yacht is awaiting you.'

Denise bit her lip impatiently, and watched the thin brown fingers that were clenched round the letter.

Then what is your news from France?' she asked. From

whence is your letter-from the front?'

It is from Paris,' answered the abbé, unfolding the paper carelessly; and Denise would not have been human had she resisted the temptation to try and decipher it.

'And- -?'

'And,' continued the abbé, shrugging his shoulders, ‘I have nothing to add, mademoiselle. You must quit Perucca before