At the end of the quay the old Castle brought the scene to a fine
conclusion. It was built by Anne of Brittany, and dates from the
sixteenth century. One of its towers bears the singular motto or
inscription: _Qui qu'en grogne, ainsi sera, c'est mon plaisir_: which
seems to suggest that the illustrious lady owned a determined will and
purpose. It is now turned into barracks; a lordly residence for the
simple paysans who swelled the ranks of the Breton regiment occupying it
at the time of which I write. They are said to be the best fighting
soldiers in France, these Bretons. Of a low order of development,
physically and mentally, they yet have a stubborn will which carries
them through impossible hardships. They may be conquered, but they never
yield.

The walk round the town upon the walls is extremely interesting.
Gradually making way, the scene changes like the shifting slides of a
panorama. Now the harbour lies before you, with its busy quays, its
docks, its small crowd of shipping; very crowded we have never seen it.
The old Castle rises majestically, looking all its three centuries of
age and royal dignity; its four towers unspoilt by restoration.

Onward still and the walls rise sheer out of the rocks and the water. At
certain tides, the sea dashes against them and breaks back upon itself
in froth and foam and angry boom. Sight and sound are a wonderful nerve
tonic. Countless rocks rise like small islands in every direction,
stretching far out to sea. On a calm day it is all lovely beyond the
power of words. The sky is blue and brilliant with sunshine. The sea
receives the dazzling rays and returns them in a myriad flashes. The
water seems to have as many tints as the rainbow, and they are as
changing and beautiful and intangible. A distant vessel, passing slowly
with all her sails set, almost becalmed, suggests a dreamy and