She was an orphan, a Bretonnaise from the village of Plouharg, near St. Brieuc. Wretched though she was, some of the mystery of this mysterious land still clung to her. It manifested itself in the grace with which she walked as though still clad in the swinging peasant skirts, the gravity of her glance, her innocence and primitive mind in which for all her youth—she was only twenty-two—were dark corners of Celtic brooding. One of these was now leading her to her death.