the island of the macreons, and its forest in which the heroes who are tempted by demons die.

the next morning there was not a man in the whole fleet so spruce, so gay, so brave as panurge.

"what cheer, ho! fore and aft?" he cried gaily. "good-day to you, gentlemen, good-day to you all. oh, ho! all's well, the storm is over. please be so kind as to let me be the first to go on shore. shall i help you before i go? here, let me see, i'll coil this rope; i have plenty of courage; give it to me, honest tar,—no, no, i haven't a bit of fear, not i. how now, friar john, you do nothing! well, so there's nothing for me to do. let us go on shore, then! truly this is a fine place!"

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panurge revives.

while panurge was blustering, and making believe that he had not been crying and blubbering all during the storm, pantagruel and his company were paying no attention to him, but were making everything ready to go on shore. on landing they were met most kindly by the people of the island, which turned out to be a small one, known as the island of macreons, macreon being a greek word meaning an "old man." therefore, the island of macreons was only another name for the "island of old men." a venerable macreon, with long white beard, reaching to his waist, who was the high sheriff of the island, stepped forward, and gravely invited pantagruel to go with him to the town hall, where he could take a rest after his fatigue, and be sure of a little luncheon afterwards. but the giant would not leave the quay until all his men had got ashore, and with enough provisions to last them while at work on the ships, which needed many repairs after the storm. this was done at once, and then began the carouse both in the town hall and among the men along the quay. there is no telling now how much was really eaten and drunk during that day; but there was enough for every one. the people of the island brought their victuals. the pantagruelists brought theirs. it was something more than a lunch, as it turned out. it was a real picnic on a large scale; everybody giving his share of the feast, and making the most of what the others brought.

after the meal pantagruel took his officers aside, and told them that, as the ships had been strained by the storm, they should set to work to make them sound again. as soon as the people of the island heard of the trouble many offered to help. this they could easily do as they were all, more or less, carpenters, having a large forest behind three very small ports.

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the dark and gloomy forest.

at pantagruel's request the white-bearded macreon, whose name was macrobius, showed him all that was strange or wonderful in the island. leaving the harbor, he took the giant into the dark and gloomy forest, which was found at the entrance to be full of ruined temples, obelisks, pyramids, and crumbling tombs. over most of these were inscriptions and epitaphs, some in strange letters, none could read, not even panurge; others in ionic characters; others in the arabic; others in the icelandic. "our heroes come," the old man explained, "from every land on the earth."

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pantagruel in the graveyard.

macrobius asked pantagruel how it was that he and his fleet could have survived the awful storm and reached port, when the macreons could see that all the air and the earth were in wild uproar. pantagruel answered, with that simple faith of his which gives the smallest dwarf the strength of the tallest giant, "friend, it was god's will." after which, he asked him whether these great storms were common around their coast.

the old man then told a very sad tale.

"pilgrim," he said, in a broken voice, "this poor island of ours was once rich, great, and full of young people. now there are no young people in it, and it is only full of old men like myself, and of shadows that we can feel, but never can see; shadows that we love, but never can know; shadows that move about in yonder forest you see stretched out before you, and, when their hour comes, die in its darkest depths. no common shadow ever yet lived or ever yet died in our forest. it is the dwelling-place only of heroes and of demons."

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the demons and the heroes.

"of heroes and demons?" cried pantagruel, amazed.

"yes, of heroes, who, after being great on earth and seeming to die there, come here to live another life, and to suffer, and to show themselves great for a final trial; and of demons who are given power to roam the forest at will, only to mock, and laugh, and lure, if they can, the heroes to sin."

"how do the demons lure the heroes to sin?"

"by trying to make them forget that to be good is the only way to be great."

"do the heroes ever yield?"

"yes, pilgrim, often, too often; and there is our great grief. if they once yield, they die at the moment of sinning, and there is neither storm at sea nor grief in the forest. we never can know when the bad heroes pass away. but ah! it is when the true heroes, who, though tempted, will not yield, die," and here macrobius stretched out his hands towards the dark line of trees as though in prayer, "that we learn of it to our sorrow. pilgrim!" he cried, while the tears, dry, like the tears old men shed, trickled down his withered cheeks into his white beard, "we were sure yesterday that we had lost another good hero."

"and what made thee sure, good macrobius?"

"because we noticed that a comet, which we had seen for three days before the storm, of a sudden grew dim, and that it shines no more. then, yesterday, when the sea was at its worst, we could hear loud cries in the forest; feel tremblings in the earth under us; and in the air about us there were breathings and black clouds. listen, now, the trees are calling some name, i know they are. i am old; my hearing is faint. do you not hear voices?"

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"we had lost another good hero."

pantagruel listened intently; but, even with his quick ears, could only hear a mournful sough, as though coming over the tops of the trees from a great distance.

"not voices, but more like sobs, good old man. they may be weeping for the hero who died yesterday. canst thou tell me his name?"

"ah, pilgrim, there, too, is our cross! it is not given to us to learn the name of a hero who has died until a year after the forest has moaned, and the sea has wept, and the earth has trembled."

"and how dost thou show him honor?"

"we place in this part of the forest which we are allowed to enter, and on the tree he best loved when alive, a verse reciting his name, and saying that another hero has died, but not until the good god had given him the power to be greater than sin."