"My friend, the Star shines in the East."
"My friend, my friend, the little King Jesus is born in the manger, upon the straw."
"Sylvestre Ker will surely go with the shepherds."
"He will go, since he promised Dame Josserande."
"He will not go, since Matheline told him to stay."
"My friend, my friend, to-night Sylvestre Ker will find the golden secret."
"To-night, my friend, my friend, he will win the heart of the one he loves."
And the invisible spirits, thus disputing, sported through the air, mounting, descending, whirling around like atoms of dust in a sunbeam, from the flag-stones of the floor to the rafters of the roof.
Inside the furnace, in the crucible, some other thing responded, but it could not be well heard, as the crucible had been hermetically sealed.
"Go out from here, you wicked crowd," cried Sylvestre Ker, sweeping around with a broom of holly branches. "What are you doing here? Go outside, cursed spirits, damned souls--go, go!"
From all the corners of the room came laughter; Matheline seemed everywhere. Suddenly there was profound silence, and the wind from the sea brought the sound of the bells of Plouharnel, ringing the second peal for the midnight Mass.
"They say Christmas, my friend--Christmas, Christmas, Christmas!"
"Not at all! They say, Gold, gold, gold!"
And the other voices, those that were grumbling in the interior of the furnace, swelled and puffed.
The fire, that no person was blowing, kept up by itself, hot as the soul of a forge should be. The crucible became red, and the stones of the furnace were dyed a deep scarlet.
In vain did Sylvestre Ker sweep with his holly broom; between the branches, covered with sharp leaves, the spirits passed,--nothing could catch them; and the heat was so great the boy was bathed in perspiration.
After the bells had finished their second peal, he said,--
"I am stifling. I will open the window to let out the heat as well as this herd of evil spirits."
But as soon as he opened the window, the whole country commenced to laugh under its white mantle of snow--barren heath, ploughed land, Druid stones, even to the enormous oaks of the forest, with their glistening summits, that shook their frosty branches, saying,--
"Sylvestre Ker will go! Sylvestre Ker will not go!"