engaged in
earnest prayer, and, arising, struck the hard rock three times with
his rod. "Our blessed Lord will send us water," he exclaimed, and no
sooner had he spoken than from the stone a fountain of pure crystal
water gushed and bubbled.

With a cry of ecstasy Arthur placed his lips to the stream and quaffed
the much-needed refreshment. His vigour restored, he was about to
return to the dragon's cavern to renew the combat when he was
restrained by Efflam.

"Cousin," said he of Ireland, "you have tried what can be done by
force; now let us see what can be achieved by prayer."

Arthur, marvelling and humbled, sat near the young man as he prayed.
All night he was busied in devotions, and at sunrise he arose and
walked boldly to the mouth of the cavern.

"Thou spawn of Satan," he cried, "in the name of God I charge thee to
come forth!"

A noise as of a thousand serpents hissing in unison followed this
challenge, and from out his lair trailed the great length of the
dragon, howling and vomiting fire and blood. Mounting to the summit of
a neighbouring rock, he vented a final bellow and then cast himself
into the sea. The blue water was disturbed as by a maelstrom; then all
was peace again.

So perished the dragon of the Lieue de Greve, and so was proved the
superiority of prayer over human strength and valour. St Efflam and
his men settled on the spot as hermits, and were miraculously fed by
angels. Efflam's wife, Enora, was borne to him by angels in that
place, only to die when she had joined him. And when they came to tell
Efflam that his new-found lady was no more and was lying cold in the
cell he had provided for her, their news fell on deaf ears, for he too
had passed away. He is buried in Plestin Church, and his effigy,
standing triumphant above an open-mouthed dragon, graces one of its
many niches.

_The Isle of Avalon_

The Bretons believe that an island off Tregastel, on the coast of the
department of Cotes-du-Nord, is the fabled Isle of Avalon to which
King Arthur, sore wounded after his last battle, was borne to be
healed of his hurts. With straining eyes the fisherman watches the
mist-wrapped islet, and, peering through the evening haze, cheats
himself into the belief that giant forms are moving upon its shores
and that spectral shapes flit across its sands--that the dark hours
bring back the activities of the attendant knights and enchantresses
of the mighty hero of Celtdom, who, refreshed by h