ad always been a patron of the
arts and science of his period. Among his friends were to be reckoned
magicians, genii, the Nine Korrigans or Fays of Brittany--all sorts of
parties capable of exerting influence, and, as events proved, only too
willing. Ambassadors waited upon Queen Harbundia; and Harbundia, even
had she wished, as on many previous occasions, to stand by her
favourite, had no alternative. The fairy Malvina was called upon to
return to Prince Gerbot his proper body and all therein contained.

She flatly refused. A self-willed, obstinate fairy, suffering from
swelled head. And then there was that personal note. Merely that he
should marry the Princess Berchta! She would see King Heremon, and
Anniamus, in his silly old wizard's robe, and the Fays of Brittany, and
all the rest of them--! A really nice White Lady may not have cared to
finish the sentence, even to herself. One imagines the flash of the
fairy eye, the stamp of the fairy foot. What could they do to her, any
of them, with all their clacking of tongues and their wagging of heads?
She, an immortal fairy! She would change Prince Gerbot back at a time
of her own choosing. Let them attend to their own tricks and leave her
to mind hers. One pictures long walks and talks between the distracted
Harbundia and her refractory favourite--appeals to reason, to
sentiment: "For my sake." "Don't you see?" "After all, dear, and
even if he did."

It seems to have ended by Harbundia losing all patience. One thing
there was she could do that Malvina seems either not to have known of
or not to have anticipated. A solemn meeting of the White Ladies was
convened for the night of the midsummer moon. The place of meeting is
described by the ancient chroniclers with more than their usual
exactitude. It was on the land that the magician Kalyb had, ages ago,
raised up above all Brittany to form the grave of King Taramis. The
"Sea of the Seven Islands" lay to the north. One guesses it to be the
ridge formed by the Arree Mountains. "The Lady of the Fountain"
appears to have been present, suggesting the deep green pool from which
the river D'Argent takes its source. Roughly speaking, one would place
it halfway between the modern towns of Morlaix and Callac.
Pedestrians, even of the present day, speak of the still loneliness of
that high plateau, treeless, houseless, with no sign of human hand
there but that high, towering monolith round which the shrill