m under
cover in order to save them from the ravages of the enemy, as well as to
deprive these of food. The grains were to be concealed in underground
caves covered with earth. Morvan, whose forehead began to be moistened
with perspiration, said, while rapidly handling the flail:

"Caswallan, you promised us a song. Take a little rest and sing. It will
inspire us in our work."

The Christian druid sang "Lez-Breiz," an old national song that ever
sounded sweet on the ears of the Bretons. It began thus:

"Between a Frankish warrior and Lez-Breiz
A combat was arranged;
It was arranged with due formalities.--
May God give the victory to the Breton,
And gladsome tidings to his county.--
That day Lez-Breiz said to his young attendant:
Rise, furbish up my handsome casque; my lance and my sword;
I mean to redden them in the blood of the Franks.--
I shall make them jump this day!"

"Old Caswallan," said one of the laborers when the druid had finished
the long and inspiring strain that warmed the blood of his hearers with
martial ardor, "let the accursed Franks come again, and we shall say,
like Lez-Breiz: 'With the aid of our two arms, let us make them jump
again to-day'--"

A furious barking of the shepherd dogs, that for some little time had
been emitting low and intermittent growls, interrupted at this moment
the remarks of the laborers, and all turned their eyes towards the gate
of the enclosure, whither the dogs had precipitated themselves
furiously.

CHAPTER III.

ABBOT AND BRETON.

The strangers whose approach the dogs announced were Abbot Witchaire,
his two monks and his guide Karouer. Preceded by the guide, who pacified
the alarm of the watchful animals, the clerical cavalcade rode into the
enclosure, while Karouer informed the abbot:

"This is the house of Morvan. We have arrived at our destination. You
may now dismount."

"What are those torches yonder for?" asked the prelate descending from
his horse, the reins of which he threw over to one of his monks. "What
is that muffled sound I hear?"

"It is the sound of the flails. Doubtlessly Morvan is threshing the
grain that he has harvested. Come, I shall lead you to him."

Abbot Witchaire and his guide approached the group of laborers, upon
whom the torches cast a clear light. Morvan, intently at work, and the
noise of the flails deafening the sound of the steps and voices of the
new arrivals, failed