In my will I have left instructions that at my death the envelope containing these papers shall be burned unopened.  Otherwise to write them would have violated the secrets of the confessional.  And this is the strangest confession to which I, Jean Rosel, a parish priest of Douarnenez, have ever listened; one shrouded in uncanny, fabulous dreams of an earlier day, even though part of it is as simple if also as old as flesh.

It was the time of the pardon at La Palude, the greatest of our Breton festivals, and all day pilgrims had been passing on their way to the blessed St. Anne.  The sick going to pray for healing, fishermen going to give thanks for preservation from their great enemy, the sea.  Late that afternoon he knocked at my garden gate, a tall gaunt man in whose dark face a tremendous vitality warred oddly with asceticism.  We talked of common things at first, of the pardon and the pilgrims.

"They come as their ancestors came, Father, when Heol was still worshipped on Menez Bre.  Now they come to pray to the blessed grandmother of Jesus; then they paid homage to Another, older and more terrible.  Her whose laughter fishermen still think they heard, down in the deep."

"It is a blessing," I said, "that the worship of the gentle mother of Mary has replaced that of cruel elemental forces."

"It was not only storm-tossed waves they feared and worshipped, Father.  There was Another."

He was leaning forward, and his eyes were wide and bright, even glassy.  He pointed to the great nearby Bay of Douarnenez, beneath whose blue waters, the peasants say, now lies King Gralon's palace of cedar, silvery and gold.  There, by St. Guennole's command, the King stayed the flood by casting in his daughter, despite her tears and terror.  A grim tale, perhaps a twisted reminiscence of human sacrifice, and my guest's mouth was grim.

"She made a full meal there, Father.  But she wanted more."

Somewhat startled, I said: "The sunken city of Ys may well be an old wives' tale."

His voice changed suddenly.  "Will you hear my confession, Father?"

Until then we had been only two gentlemen talking together.  I was startled again, I do not know quite why, but I agreed, as was my duty.

He said slowly: "My family has owned land near here for centuries.  The Kerivals.  You have heard of Guennole Kerival, Father?"

I had.  As a divinity student of great promise, but one who had never taken his vows.  He had disappeared instead, leaving vague and scandalous rumors behind.  I said only, "Yes.  I have heard of him."

"As a great sinner?"  He smiled rather wryly.  "I  have been sure how great my sin was, but tonight I am going to find out.  That is why I came here - I may not be able to come to any priest again."

I felt suddenly uneasy.  Twilight was coming; the sky was pale blue, mottled with great splashes of gold, but a faint shadow already lay upon the earth.  There was a stillness like the stealthy quiet of gathering forces.

"Self-murder?  Surely you would not dare that crime against yourself, my son?"

He laughed.  "When I stand in guilt before the Highest, it will not be for my own death.  Yet the man I might have been died long ago; these many years I have been his ghost.  But who killed him - myself or another - that is what I must find out tonight."

He looked down at his hands, where they lay open on his knees.  Long hands, sinewy and powerful; their strength could have thrown an ox, yet once he had been famed for his brilliance, for his learning....