Chapter III: Part 3

Seeing it advance, he would have defied it with his magic plants; but the stone, become Christian, was no longer subject to the witchery of the demon, and hurrying onwards, crushed the sorcerer like an insect.

Bernèz had not only all his own collection, but the three full wallets of the mendicant, and became thus rich enough to wed his Rozenn, to bring up a numerous family, and to succour his relations, as well as the poor of the whole country around, to the end of his long life.

TEUZ-A-POULIET; [21] OR, THE DWARF.

The vale of Pinard is a pleasant slope which lies behind the city of Morlaix. There are plenty of gardens, houses, shops, and bakers to be found there, besides many farms that boast their ample cowsheds and full barns.

Now, in olden times, when there was neither conscription nor general taxation, there dwelt in the largest of these farms an honest man, called Jalm Riou, who had a comely daughter, Barbaik. Not only was she fair and well-fashioned, but she was the best dancer, and also the best drest, in all those parts. When she set off on Sunday to hear Mass at St. Mathieu's church, she used to wear an embroidered coif, a gay neckerchief, five petticoats one over the other, [22] and silver buckles in her shoes; so that the very butchers' wives were jealous, and tossing their heads as she went by, they asked her whether she had been selling the devil her black hen. [23] But Barbaik troubled herself not at all for all they said, so long as she continued to be the best-dressed damsel, and the most attractive at the fair of the patron saint.

Barbaik had many suitors, and among them was one who really loved her more than all the rest; and this was the lad who worked upon her father's farm, a good labourer and a worthy Christian, but rough and ungainly in appearance. So Barbaik would have nothing to say to him, in spite of his good qualities, and always declared, when speaking of him, that he was a colt of Pontrieux. [24]

Jégu, who loved her with all his heart, was deeply wounded, and fretted sorely at being so ill-used by the only creature that could give him either joy or trouble.

One morning, when bringing home the horses from the field, he stopped to let them drink at the pond; and as he stood holding the smallest one, with his head sunk upon his breast, and uttering every now and then the heaviest sighs, for he was thinking of Barbaik, he heard suddenly a voice proceeding from the reeds, which said to him,

"Why are you so miserable, Jégu? things are not yet quite so desperate."

The farmer's boy raised his head astonished, and asked who was there.

"It is I, the Teuz-à-pouliet," said the same voice.

"I do not see you," replied Jégu.

"Look closely, and you will see me in the midst of the reeds, under the form of a beautiful green frog. I take successively whatever form I like, unless I prefer making myself invisible."

"But can you not show yourself under the usual appearance of your kind?"

"No doubt, if that will please you."

With these words the frog leaped on one of the horses' backs, and changed himself suddenly into a little dwarf, with bright green dress and smart polished gaiters, like a leather-merchant of Landivisiau.

Jégu, a little scared, drew back a step or two; but the Teuz told him not to be afraid, for that, far from wishing him harm, he was ready to do him good.

"And what makes you take this interest in me?" inquired the peasant, with a suspicious air.

"A service which you rendered to me the last winter," said the Teuz-à-pouliet. "You doubtless are aware that the Korigans of the White-Wheat country and of Cornouaille declared war against our race, because they say we are too favourably disposed to man. [25] We were obliged to flee into the bishopric of Léon, where at first we concealed ourselves under divers animal forms. Since then, from habit or fancy, we have continued to assume them, and I became acquainted with you through one of these transformations."

"And how was that?"

"Do you remember, three months ago, whilst working in the alder-park, finding a robin caught in a snare?"

"Yes," interrupted Jégu; "and I remember also that I let it fly, saying, 'As for thee, thou dost not eat the bread of Christians: take thy flight, thou bird of the good God.'"

"Ah, well, that robin was myself. Ever since then I vowed to be your faithful friend, and I will prove it too by causing you to marry Barbaik, since you love her so well."

"Ah, Teuz-à-pouliet, could you but succeed in that," cried Jégu, "there is nothing in this world, except my soul, that I would not bestow upon you."

"Let me alone," replied the dwarf; "yet a few months from this time, and I will see you are the master of that farm and of the maiden too."

"And how can you undertake that?" asked the youth.

"You shall know all in time; all you have to do just now is to smoke your pipe, eat, drink, and take no trouble about any thing."

Jégu declared that nothing could be easier than that, and he would conform exactly to the Teuz's orders; then, thanking him, and taking off his hat as he would have done to the curé or the magistrate, he went homewards to the farm.

The following day happened to be Sunday. Barbaik rose earlier than usual, and went to the stables, which were under her sole charge; but to her great surprise she found them already freshly littered, the racks garnished, the cows milked, and the cream churned. Now, as she recollected having said before Jégu, on the preceding night, that she wanted to be ready in good time to go to the feast of St. Nicholas, she very naturally concluded that it was he who had done all this for her, and she told him she was much obliged. Jégu, however, replied in a peevish tone, that he did not know what she meant; but this only confirmed Barbaik in her belief.

The same good service was rendered to her now every day. Never had the stable been so cleanly, nor the cows so fat. Barbaik found her earthen pans full of milk at morning and at evening, and a pound of fresh-churned butter decked with blackberry-leaves. So in a few weeks' time she got into the habit of never rising till broad daylight, to prepare breakfast and set about her household duties.

But even this labour was soon spared her; for one morning, on getting out of bed, she found the house already swept, the furniture polished, the soup on the fire, and the bread cut into the bowls; so that she had nothing to do but go to the courtyard, and call the labourers from the fields. She still thought it was an attention shown to her by Jégu, and she could not help considering what a very convenient husband he would be for a woman who liked to have her time to herself.

And it was a fact that Barbaik never uttered a wish before him that was not immediately fulfilled. If the wind was cold, or if the sun shone hot, and she was afraid of injuring her complexion by going to the spring, she had only to say low, "I should like to see my buckets filled, and my tub full of washed linen." Then she would go and gossip with a neighbour, and on her return she would find tub and buckets just as she had desired them to be, standing on the stone. If she found the rye-dough too hard to bake, or the oven too long in heating, she had only to say, "I should like to see my six fifteen-pound loaves all ranged upon the board above the kneading-trough," and two hours later the six loaves were there. If she found the market too far off, and the road too bad, she had only to say over-night, "Why am I not already come back from Morlaix, with my milk-can empty, my tub of butter sold out, a pound of black cherries in my wooden platter, and six reals [26] at the bottom of my apron-pocket?" and the next morning, when she rose, she would discover at the foot of her bed the empty milk-can and butter-tub, the pound of cherries in her wooden plate, and six reals in her apron-pocket.

But the good offices that were rendered to her did not stop here. Did she wish to make an appointment with another damsel at some fair, to buy a ribbon in the town, or to find out the hour at which the procession at the church was to begin, Jégu was always at hand; all she had to do was to mention her wish before him, and the thing was done.

When things were thus advanced, the Teuz advised the youth to ask Barbaik now in marriage; and this time she listened to all he had to say. She thought Jégu very plain and unmannerly; but yet, as a husband, he was just what she wanted. Jégu would wake for her, work for her, save for her. Jégu would be the shaft-horse, forced to draw the whole weight of the wagon; and she, the farmer's wife, seated on a heap of clover, and driving him with the whip.

After having well considered all this, she answered the young man, as a well-conducted damsel should, that she would refer the matter to her father.

But she knew beforehand that Jalm Riou would consent; for he had often said that only Jégu would be fit to manage the farm when he should be no more.

So the marriage took place the very next month; and it seemed as if the aged father had but waited until then to go and take his rest in Paradise; for a very few days after the marriage he died, leaving the house and land to the young folks.

It was a great responsibility for Jégu; but the Teuz came to his assistance. He became the ploughboy at the farm, and did more work alone than four hired labourers. He it was who kept the tools and harness in good order, who repaired omissions, who pointed out the proper time for sowing or for mowing. If by chance Jégu had occasion to expedite some work, the Teuz would go and tell his friends, and all the dwarfs would come with hoe, fork, or reaping-hook upon their shoulders; if teams were wanted, he would send the farmer to a town inhabited by some of his tribe, who would be out upon the common; and Jégu had only to say, "Little men, my good friends, lend me a pair of oxen, or a couple of horses, with all that is needed for their work," and the team would appear that very instant.

Now all the Teuz-à-pouliet asked in payment of these services was a child's portion of broth, served up in a milk-measure, every day. So Jégu loved him like his own son. Barbaik, on the contrary, hated him, and not without reason; for the very next day after marriage she saw with astonishment she was no longer assisted as before; and as she was making her complaint to Jégu, who seemed as if he did not understand her, the dwarf, bursting out in laughter, confessed that he had been the author of all these good offices, in order that the damsel might consent to marry Jégu; but that now he had other things to do, and she must once more undertake the household management.

Deceived thus in her expectations, the daughter of Jalm Riou treasured in her heart a furious rage against the dwarf. Every morning, when she had to rise before the break of day and milk the cows or go to market, and every evening, when she had to sit up till near midnight churning cream, she cursed the Teuz who had encouraged her to look forward to a life of ease and pleasure.

However, one day, being invited to a wedding at Plouezorc'h, and not being able to take the farm-mare, as it was near foaling, she asked the Teuz-à-pouliet for a steed; and he sent her to the dwarf village, telling her to explain exactly what she wanted.

So Barbaik went; and thinking she was doing for the best, she said,

"Teuz, my friends, lend me a black horse, with eyes, mouth, ears, saddle, and bridle."

The horse that she had asked for instantly appeared, and she set out on him towards Plouezorc'h.

But soon she saw that every one was laughing as she went along.

"See, see!" they cried, "the farmer's wife has sold her horse's tail."

Barbaik turned quickly round, and saw indeed that her horse had no tail. She had forgotten to ask for one; and the malicious dwarf had served her to the letter.

Disconcerted, she would have hastened on, but the horse refused to mend his pace; and so she was compelled to endure the jests of passers-by.

The young wife came home at night more furious than ever against the Teuz-à-pouliet, accusing him of having played her this ill turn on purpose, and fully resolved to be revenged upon him at the earliest opportunity.

Well, spring drew near, and as this was the time the dwarfs held festival, the Teuz asked leave of Jégu to extend an invitation to all his friends to come and spend the night on the barn-floor, where he might give them a supper and a dance. Jégu was far too much indebted to the dwarf to think of saying no; and ordered Barbaik to spread over the barn-floor her finest fringed table-cloths, and to serve up a batch of little butter-cakes, all the morning and the evening milk, and as many wheaten pancakes as could be turned out in a good day's work.

Barbaik made no reply, to her husband's great surprise.

She made the pancakes, prepared the milk, cooked the buttered cakes, and at evening-tide she took them all out to the barn; but at the same time she spread down, all round about the extended table-cloths, just where the dwarfs were going to place themselves, the ashes she had drawn smoking from the oven; so that when the Teuz-à-pouliet and his guests came in to seat themselves, they were every one severely burned, and fled away, uttering loud cries. They soon came back, however, carrying jugs of water, and so put out the fire; and then danced round the farm, all singing in an angry tone,

"Barbe Riou, with dire deceit,
Has roasted our poor little feet:
Adieu! far hence away we go;
On this house be grief and woe!"

And, in fact, they left the country that very morning. Jégu, having lost their help, soon fell into distress and died; whilst the beautiful Barbaik became a basket-woman at Morlaix market.

Since then the Teuz have never been seen in these parts. However, there are some who say that all good work-people have to this very day ten dwarfs who toil for them, and not invisibly; and these are--their ten fingers.

THE SPECTRE LAUNDRESSES.

The Bretons are born in sin, even as other men, but never have they been wanting in care for the souls of their faithful departed. They take tender pity upon those who burn in purgatory, and earnestly strive to redeem them from their fiery trial. Every Sunday, after Mass, they kneel and plead for their suffering souls upon the very earth in which their poor bodies are mouldering away.

It is in the Black Month, [27] as they call November, that they especially attach themselves to this pious duty. When the Messenger of Winter [28] arrives, each one bethinks himself of those who are gone to the judgment-seat of God. Masses are said for them at the altar of the Dead; in their behalf are tapers kindled, and vows made to saints in highest veneration; little children are taken to offer their innocent prayers upon the grave-stones; and after Vespers the priest comes out of church to bless the earth to which their dust has been committed.

On this night also is it that our Lord vouchsafes some respite to their sufferings, and permits them to return once more and pay a visit to the hearth-stones of their former homes. Then are the dead as numerous in the homesteads of the living as the yellow leaves that rustle in the deep dry lanes; and therefore it is that all good Christians leave the board spread and the fire blazing, that the unwonted guests may, if they will, refresh themselves.

But if it is so with all who are truly devoted to the service of the Blessed Mother and her divine Son, there are also children of the Black Angel ("l'ange noir"), who forget those that were once nearest to their hearts. Wilherm Postik was one of these. His father had died without desiring to receive the last Sacraments; and, as the proverb has it, Kadiou is his father's own son. Wilherm gave himself up, body and soul, to forbidden pleasures, dancing during Mass-time, whenever he could find an opportunity, and drinking with rascally horse-dealers when he should have been in church. Nevertheless, God had not left him without enough of warnings. Within the same year had his mother, his sisters, and his wife been carried off by a contagious disease. Many a time, too, had the good curé exposed to him his evil deeds, showing him that he was a scandal to the whole parish, and urging him to repentance; but all was in vain.

Meanwhile the fine weather went by. The feast of All Souls arrived, and all good Christians, clad in decent mourning, repaired to church to pray for the faithful departed. But for Wilherm, he dressed himself out in his best, and set out for the neighbouring town, where he was sure to find plenty of reprobate sailors and reckless women.

All the time devoted by others to the solace of the suffering souls he spent there in drinking, gambling, and singing vile songs; nor did he think of returning till close upon midnight, when every body else had gone home wearied with iniquity. For him, he had a frame of iron for sinful pleasures; and he quitted the drinking-house as well disposed for a fresh bout as when he entered it.

Heated with drink, he went along, singing at the top of his voice, though his songs were such as the boldest are apt to give out in an undertone. He passed the wayside crosses without dropping his voice or uncovering his head, and struck out right and left with his walking-stick amongst the tufts of broom, regardless of the holy dead who thronged every path.

At last the road divided, giving him his choice of two ways homeward; the one longer about, but safer, under the blessing of God, the other more direct, but haunted by spirits. Many a one in passing by that way had heard noises and seen sights that could be only told of in a cheerful assembly, and within arm's-length of the holy-water stoup. But Wilherm feared nothing; so he struck at once into the shorter path, at a pace that made his heavy shoes ring against the stones.

Neither moon nor stars cheered the night, the leaves trooped before the driving wind, the brooks trickled dismally adown the hill-sides, the bushes shivered like a man afraid, and through the midnight stillness the steps of Wilherm echoed like a giant's tread. Yet nothing daunted him, and on he went.

But as he passed the ruins of the old manor-house, he plainly heard the weather-vane call to him as it creaked,

"Go back, go back, go back!"

Still Wilherm went on. He came up to the waterfall, and the water murmured,

"Cross me not, cross me not, cross me not!"

Wilherm set his foot upon the well-worn stepping stones, and crossed the stream. He came to an old hollow oak-tree, and the wind that whistled in its branches cried,

"Stay here, stay here, stay here!"

But he struck his staff against the dead tree in passing, and hurried onwards.

At last he came into the haunted vale, and midnight struck from the three parish-church towers. Wilherm began to whistle a jovial air; but just as he came to the fourth verse, he heard the sound of tireless wheels, and saw a cart approaching covered with a funeral pall.

Wilherm knew it for a hearse. It was drawn by six black horses, and driven by Ankou [29] himself, with an iron whip in his hand, and ever crying as he went,

"Turn aside, or I turn thee back!"

Wilherm gave him way without being disconcerted.

"What are you doing here, Squire White?" [30] he questioned boldly.

"I make prize, and by surprise," replied Ankou.

"That is to say, you're thievish and treacherous," continued Wilherm.

"I am he that strikes without distinction and without regret."

"That is to say, a fool and a brute. Then I wonder no more, my fine fellow, that you're a regular inhabitant of the four bishoprics, for to you the whole proverb belongs. [31] But what are you in such haste about to-day?"

"I am going to fetch Wilherm Postik," replied the phantom as he passed on.

The profligate laughed aloud, and went on his way. As he came up to the little sloe-hedge leading to the washing-ground, he saw two white females hanging linen on the bushes.

"On my life," said he, "here are some damsels not much afraid of the night-dews! What are you about here at this time, my little doves?"

"We wash, we dry, we sew!" replied the two women both at once.

"But what?" asked the young man.

"The winding-sheet of one that yet walks and speaks."

"A corpse! Pardieu! Tell me his name."

"Wilherm Postik."

Louder than before laughed Wilherm, and went down the little rugged path.

But as he went on he heard more and more distinctly the beetle of the spectre laundresses striking on the douez [32] stones, and ere long they themselves were to be seen, beating at their death-shrouds, and chanting the sorrowful refrain:

"If no good soul our hands will stay,
We must toil till judgment-day;
In stormy wind, or clear moonlight,
We must wash the death-shroud white."

As soon as they perceived this boon companion, they all rushed forward with loud cries, offering each her winding-sheet, that he might help them to wring out the water.

"Amongst friends we must not scruple to do a good turn," replied Wilherm gaily; "but one at a time, my pretty laundresses, a man has but two hands."

So laying down his walking-stick, he took the end of the shroud offered by one of the ghosts, taking care to wring the same way that she did; for he had heard of old that this was the only way to escape being shivered to atoms.

But whilst they thus wrung the winding-sheet, behold, the other spectres surrounded Wilherm, who recognised amongst them his aunt, his wife, his mother, and his sisters, who cried aloud,

"A thousand curses upon him who leaves his own flesh and blood to suffer torments! A thousand curses!"

And they shook their streaming locks, and whirled aloft their snow-white beetles; while from all the douez of the valley, along the hedgerows, and floating over the commons far and wide, there came the sound of ghostly voices echoing the same cry,

"A thousand curses! a thousand curses!"

Wilherm, beside himself with terror, felt his hair stand up on end, and, forgetting in his confusion the precaution hitherto observed, he began to wring the contrary way. In the same instant the winding-sheet grasped his hands as in a vice, and he fell, brayed by the iron arms of the spectre laundress.

A young girl of Henvik, named Fantik-ar-Fur, passing at daybreak near the douez, saw Wilherm stretched upon the blue stones. Thinking that he had lain down there to sleep whilst tipsy, the child drew near to wake him with a sprig of broom; but finding he remained motionless, she took fright and ran to the village to tell the news.

A number of the inhabitants came with the curé, the sexton, and the notary, who was mayor of the place. The body was taken up, placed on a wagon, and drawn home by oxen; but the blessed candles that were lighted continually went out, a token of the fearful fate that had overtaken Wilherm Postik.

So his body was deposited outside the church-yard walls, in the resting-place of dogs and reprobates.

The belief in spectre laundresses is universal in Brittany.

ROBIN REDBREAST.

Long, long ago, ere the acorns were sown which have since furnished timber for the oldest vessels of the port of Brest, there lived in the parish of Guirek a poor widow called Ninorc'h Madek. Her father, who was very wealthy and of noble race, had left at his death a manor-house, with a farm, a mill, and a forge, twelve horses and twice as many oxen, twelve cows and ten times as many sheep, to say nothing of corn and flax.

But Ninorc'h was a helpless widow, and her brothers took the whole for themselves. Perrik, the eldest, kept the house, the farm, and the horses; Fanche, the second, took the mill and the cows; whilst the third, whose name was Riwal, had the oxen, the forge, and the sheep. Nothing was left for Ninorc'h but a doorless shed on the open heath, which had served to shelter the sick cattle.

However, as she was getting together her little matter of furniture, in order to take possession of her new abode, Fanche pretended to take pity upon her, and said,

"Come, I will deal with you like a brother and a Christian. Here is a black cow; she has never come to much good, and, indeed, gives scarce milk enough to feed a new-born babe; but you may take her with you, if you will, and May-flower can look after her upon the common."

May-flower [33] was the widow's daughter, now in her eleventh year, and had been called after the colourless blossom of the thickets from her unusually pale complexion.

So Ninorc'h went away with her pallid little girl, who led the poor lean cow by an old cord, and she sent them out upon the common together.

There May-flower stayed all day, watching her black cow, which with much ado contrived to pick a little grass between the stones. She spent her time in making little crosses with blossoms of the broom, [34] or in repeating aloud her Rosary and her favourite hymns.

One day, as she was singing the "Ave Maris Stella," as she had heard it at Vespers in the church of Guirek, all at once she noticed a little bird perched upon one of the flower-crosses she had set in the earth. He was warbling sweetly, and turned his head from side to side, looking at her as if he longed to speak. Not a little surprised, she gently drew near and listened, but without being able to distinguish any meaning in his song. In vain he sang louder, flapped his wings, and fluttered about before May-flower. Not a whit the wiser was she for all this; and yet such pleasure did she take in watching and listening to him, that night came on without her being able to think of any thing else. At last the bird flew away; and when she looked up to see what had become of him, she saw the stars twinkling in the sky.

With all speed she started off to look for her cow, but to her dismay it was nowhere to be found upon the common. In vain she called aloud, in vain she beat the bushes, in vain she went down into each hollow where the rainwater had formed a pool. At last she heard her mother's voice, calling her, as if some great misfortune had happened. All in a fright, she ran up to her, and there, at the edge of the heath, on the way homeward, she found the widow beside all that remained of the poor cow,--her horns, that is, and her bones, the latter well picked by the wolves, which had sallied forth from the neighbouring woods and made a meal of her.

At this sight May-flower felt her blood run cold. She burst into tears, for she loved the black cow she had tended so long, and falling on her knees exclaimed,

"Blessed Virgin, why did you not let me see the wolf? I would have scared him away with the sign of the cross; I would have repeated the charm that is taught to shepherd-boys who keep their flocks upon the mountains,--

'Art thou wolf, St. Hervé shend [35] thee!
Art thou Satan, God defend me!'" [36]

The widow, who was a very saint for piety and resignation, seeing the sorrow of the little girl, sought to comfort her, saying,

"It is not well to weep for the cow as for a fellow-creature, my poor child; if the wolves and wicked men conspire against us, the Lord God will be on our side. Come, then, help me up with my bundle of heath, and let us go home."

May-flower did as she said, but sighed at every step, and the big tears trickled down her cheeks.

"My poor cow!" said she to herself, "my poor, good, gentle cow! and just, too, as she was beginning to fatten a little."

The little girl had no heart for supper, and many times awakened in the night, fancying that she heard the black cow lowing at the door. With very restlessness she rose before the dawn, and ran out upon the common, barefooted and but half-dressed. There, at the selfsame spot, appeared the little bird again, perched as before on her broom-flower cross. Again he sang, and seemed to call her. But, alas, she was as little able as on the preceding evening to understand him, and was turning away in vexation, when she thought she saw a piece of gold glittering on the ground. To try what it really was, she moved it with her foot; but, lo, it was the gold-herb; and no sooner had she touched it than she distinctly understood the language of the little bird, [37] saying in his warbling,

"May-flower, I wish thee well. May-flower, listen to me."

"Who are you?" said May-flower, wondering within herself that she could understand the language of an unbaptised creature.

"I am Robin Redbreast," returned the bird. "It was I that followed the Saviour on His way to Calvary, and broke a thorn from the crown that was tearing His brow. [38] To recompense this act, it was granted to me by God the Father that I should live until the day of judgment, and that every year I might bestow a fortune upon one poor girl. This year I have chosen you."

"Can this be true, Robin Redbreast?" cried May-flower, in a transport of delight. "And shall I have a silver cross for my neck, and be able to wear wooden shoes?"

"A cross of gold shall you have, and silken slippers shall you wear, like a noble damsel," replied Robin Redbreast.

"But what must I do, dear kind Robin?" said the little maid.

"Only follow me."

It may well be supposed that May-flower had no objection to make; so Robin Redbreast flew before, and she ran after him.

On they went; across the heath, through the copses, and over the fields of rye, till at last they came to the open downs over against the Seven Isles. There Robin stopped, and said to the little girl,

"Seest thou aught on the sands down there?"

"I see," replied May-flower, "a great pair of beechen shoes that the fire has never scorched, and a holly-staff that has not been hacked by the sickle."

"Put on the shoes, and take up the staff."

It was done.

"Now walk upon the sea to the first island, and go round it till thou shalt come to a rock on which grow sea-green rushes."

"What then?"

"Gather some of the rushes, and twist them into a cord."

"Well, and then?"

"Then strike the rock with the holly-staff, and there will come forth from it a cow. Make a halter of the rushen cord, and lead her home to console thy mother for the one just lost."

All that Robin Redbreast had told her, May-flower did. She walked upon the sea; she made the cord of rushes; she struck the rock, and there came out from it a cow, with eyes as soft as a stag-hound's, and a skin sleek as that of the mole that burrows in the meadows. May-flower led her home to her poor mother, whose joy now was almost greater than her former sorrow.

But what were her sensations when she began to milk Mor Vyoc'h! [39] (for so had Robin Redbreast named the creature). Behold, the milk flowed on and on beneath her fingers like water from a spring!

Ninorc'h had soon filled all the earthen vessels in the house, and then all those of wood, but still the milk flowed on.

"Now, holy Mother save us!" cried the widow, "certainly this beast has drunk of the waters of Languengar." [40]

In fact, the milk of Mor Vyoc'h was inexhaustible; she had already yielded enough to satisfy every babe in Cornouaille.

In a little time nothing was talked of throughout the country but the widow's cow, and people crowded from all parts to see it. The rector of Peros-Guirek came among the rest, to see whether it were not a snare of the evil one; but after he had laid his stole upon Mor Vyoc'h's head, he pronounced her clear of all suspicion.

Before long all the richest farmers were persuading Ninorc'h to sell her cow, each one bidding against the other for so invaluable a beast; her brother Perrik among the rest.

"Come," said he, "I am your brother; as a good Christian you must give me the preference. Let me have Mor Vyoc'h, and I will give you in exchange as many cows as it takes tailors to make a man." [41]

"Is that your Christian dealing?" answered the widow. "Nine cows for Mor Vyoc'h! She is worth all the cows in the country, far and near. With her milk I could supply all the markets in the bishoprics of Tréguier and Cornouaille, from Dinan to Carhaix."

"Well, sister, only let me have her," replied Perrik, "and I will give up to you our father's farm, on which you were born, with all the fields, ploughs, and horses."

This proposal Ninorc'h accepted, and was forthwith put in possession, turning up a sod in the meadows, taking a draught of water from the well, and kindling a fire on the hearth; besides cutting a tuft of hair from the horses' tails in token of ownership. [42] She then delivered Mor Vyoc'h to Perrik, who led her away to a house which he had at some distance, towards Menez-Brée.

A day of tears and sadness was that for May-flower; and as at night she went the round of the stalls to see that all was right, she could not help again and again murmuring, as she filled the mangers,

"Alas, Mor Vyoc'h is gone! I shall never see Mor Vyoc'h again."

With this lament still on her lips, she suddenly heard a lowing behind her, in which, as by virtue of the gold-herb her ears were now open to the language of all animals, she distinctly made out these words,

"Here I am again, my little mistress,"

May-flower turned round in astonishment, and there indeed was Mor Vyoc'h.

"Oh, can this indeed be you?" cried the little girl. "And what, then, has brought you back?"

"I cannot belong to your uncle Perrik," said Mor Vyoc'h, "for my nature forbids me to remain with such as are not in a state of grace; so I am come back to be with you again as before."

"But then my mother must give back the farm, the fields, and all that she has received for you."

"Not so; for it was already hers by right, and had been unjustly taken from her by your uncle."

"But he will come to see if you are here, and will know you again."

"Go and gather three leaves of the cross-wort, [43] and I will tell you what to do."

May-flower went, and soon returned with the three leaves.

"Now," said Mor Vyoc'h, "pass those leaves over me, from my horns to my tail, and say 'St. Ronan of Ireland!' three times."

May-flower did so; and as she called on the saint for the third time, lo, the cow became a beautiful horse. The little girl was lost in wonder.

"Now," said the creature to her, "your uncle Perrik cannot possibly know me again; for I am no longer Mor Vyoc'h, but Marc'h-Mor." [44]

On hearing what had come to pass, the widow was greatly rejoiced; and early on the morrow proceeded to make trial of her horse with a load of corn for Tréguier. But guess her astonishment when she found that the more sacks were laid on Marc'h-Mor's back the longer it grew; so that he alone could carry as much wheat as all the horses in the parish.

The tale of the widow's wonderful horse was soon noised about the neighbourhood, and among the rest her brother Fanche heard of it. He therefore lost no time in proceeding to the farm; and when he had seen Marc'h-Mor, begged his sister to part with him, which, however, she would by no means consent to do till Fanche had offered her in exchange his cows and his mill, with all the pigs that he was fattening there.

The bargain concluded, Ninorc'h took possession of her new property, as she had done at the farm; and Fanche led away Marc'h-Mor.

But in the evening there he was again; and again May-flower gathered three leaves of cross-wort, stroked him over with them three times from his ears to his tail, repeating each time St. Ronan of Ireland! as she had done before to Mor Vyoc'h. And, lo, in a moment the horse changed into a sheep covered with wool as long as hemp, as red as scarlet, and as fine as dressed flax.

Full of admiration at this new miracle, the widow came to behold it; and no sooner was she within sight than she called to May-flower,

"Run and fetch a pair of shears; for the poor creature cannot bear this weight of wool."

But when she began to shear Mor-Vawd, she found the wool grow as fast as she cut it off; so that he alone far out-valued all the flocks of Arhèz.

Riwal, who chanced to come by at that moment, was witness of the wonder; and then and there parted with his forge, his sheep-walks, and all his sheep, to obtain possession of the wonderful sheep.

But see! As he was leading his new purchase home along the sea-shore, the sheep suddenly plunged in the water, swam to the smallest of the seven isles, and passed into a chasm of the rocks, which opened to receive it, and straight-way closed again.

This time May-flower expected him back at the usual hour in vain. Neither that night nor on the morrow did he revisit the farm.

The little girl ran to the common. There she found Robin Redbreast, who thus spoke, before he flew away for ever:

"I have been waiting for you, my little lady. The sheep is gone, and will return no more. Your uncles have been punished after their deserts. For you, you are now a rich heiress, and may wear a cross of gold and silken slippers, as I promised you. My work here is done, and I am about to fly away far hence. Only, do you remember always, that you have been poor, and that it was one of God's little birds that made you rich."

To prove her gratitude, May-flower built a chapel on the heath, on that very spot where Robin Redbreast first addressed her. And the old men, from whom our fathers heard this tale, could remember lighting the altar-candles there when they were little boys.

COMORRE.

In the old times, it is said that the city of Vannes was far larger and finer than it is in our days, and that instead of a prefect, it was ruled by a king, whose will was law. I do not know what his name was; but from all I have heard, it seems that he was a man who lived in the fear of God, and of whom no one had ever found occasion to speak an evil word.

He had been early left a widower; and he lived happily with his only daughter, said to be the most beautiful creature in the whole world. She was called Tryphyna, and those who knew her have asserted that she came of age unsullied by a single mortal sin. So that the king her father would have willingly sacrificed his horses, castles, and farms, rather than see Tryphyna made unhappy.

However, it came to pass, that one day ambassadors from Cornouaille were announced. They came on the part of Comorre, a powerful prince of those times, who ruled over the land of Black-Wheat as Tryphyna's father ruled that of the White. [45]

After offering presents of honey, flax, and a dozen of little pigs, to the king, they informed him that their master had visited the last fair at Vannes disguised as a soldier, and there beholding the beauty and modesty of the young princess, he had determined at all hazards to have her in marriage.

This proposal filled both the king and Tryphyna with great grief; for the Count Comorre was a giant, and said to be the wickedest man that had ever been on the earth since the days of Cain.

From his earliest youth he had been used to find his only pleasure in working mischief; and so malicious was he, that his mother herself had been accustomed to run and ring the alarm-bell whenever he left the castle, to warn the country people to take care of themselves. When older, and his own master, his cruelty was greater still. It was said that one morning, on his way out, he tried his gun upon a lad tending a colt at pasture, and killed him. And at other times, when returning unsuccessful from the chase, he would let loose his dogs upon the poor peasants in the fields, and suffer them to be pulled down like beasts of prey. But, most horrible of all, he had married four wives in succession, each of whom had died off suddenly without receiving the last Sacraments; and it was even said that he had made away with them by the knife, fire, water, or poison.

So the King of Vannes replied to the ambassadors that his daughter was too young and too weak in health to think of marrying. But Comorre's people answered roughly, after their manner, that the Count Comorre would listen to no such excuses, and that they had received orders, if the young princess was not sent back with them, to declare war against the King of Vannes. The king replied, that they must do as they liked about that. Then the most aged among the envoys lighted a handful of straw, which he flung to the winds, declaring that thus should the anger of Comorre pass over the country of White-Wheat; and so they departed. [46]

Tryphyna's father, being a courageous man, did not allow himself to be disheartened by this threat, and called together all the soldiers he could muster to defend his territories.

But in a few days he heard that the Count of Cornouaille was advancing upon Vannes with a powerful army; and it was not long before he came in sight with trumpets and cannons. Then the king put himself at the head of his people, and the battle was on the point of beginning; when St. Veltas [47] came to find Tryphyna, who was praying in her oratory.

The saint wore the cloak which had served him as a vessel for crossing the sea, and carried the walking-staff which he had fastened to it as a mast to catch the wind. A halo of glory hovered round his brow. He announced to the young princess that the men of Vannes and Cornouaille were on the point of shedding each other's blood, and asked her whether she would not stay the death of so many Christians by consenting to become the wife of Count Comorre.

"Alas, then, God demands from me the death of all my peace and happiness," cried the young girl, weeping. "Why am I not a beggar? I could then at least be wedded to the beggar of my choice. Ah, if it is indeed the will of God that I espouse this giant, whom I dread so much, say for me, holy man, the Office for the Dead; for the count will kill me, as he has his other wives."

But St. Veltas replied,

"Fear nothing, Tryphyna. See here this ring of silver, white as milk; it shall serve you as a warning; for so surely as Comorre is plotting any thing against you, it will become as black as the crow's wing. Take courage, then, and save the Bretons from death."

The young princess, reassured by this present of the ring, consented to St. Veltas's request.

Then the saint hurried without loss of time towards the opposed armies, that he might announce the good tidings to their chiefs. The King of Vannes, notwithstanding his daughter's resolution, was very unwilling to consent to the marriage; but Comorre promised so fairly, that at last he accepted him as son-in-law.

The nuptials were celebrated with such festivities as have never been seen since within the two dioceses. The first day six thousand noble guests sat down to table; and on the second they received as many poor, whom the bride and bridegroom, forgetful of their rank, waited on at table, with napkins on their arms. [48] Then there was dancing, at which all the musicians of Lower Brittany were engaged; and wrestling-matches, in which the men of Brévelay contended with those of Cornouaille.

At last, when all was over, every one went home to his own country; and Comorre carried off with him his young bride, as a sparrow-hawk that has pounced upon a poor little yellow-hammer.

However, during the first few months his affection for Tryphyna softened him more than might have been expected. The castle-dungeons remained empty, and the gibbets held no pasture for foul birds of prey. The count's people whispered low,

"What ails our lord, then, that he thirsts no more for tears and blood?" But those who knew him better waited and said nothing. Tryphyna herself, notwithstanding the count's kindness towards her, could never feel easy or happy in her mind. Every day she went down to the castle-chapel, and there, praying on the tombs of Comorre's four dead wives, she besought God to preserve her from a violent death.

About this time a grand assembly of Breton princes took place at Rennes, and Comorre was obliged to join it. He gave into Tryphyna's keeping all the castle keys, even those of the cellars; told her to amuse herself as she liked best, and set out with a great retinue.

It was five months before he returned, full of anxiety to see Tryphyna, of whom he had thought often during his absence. And in his haste, unwilling to lose time by announcing his arrival, he rushed up into her room, where she was at that moment engaged in making an infant's cap, trimmed with silver-lace.

On seeing the cap, Comorre turned pale, and asked for what it was designed. The countess, thinking to rejoice his heart, assured him that they would shortly have a child; but at this news the Prince of Cornouaille drew back in horror, and after looking at Tryphyna with a dreadful countenance, went suddenly out, not speaking a word.

The princess might have taken this for one of the count's frequent caprices, had she not perceived, on casting down her eyes, that the silver ring had turned black. She uttered a cry of terror; for she remembered the words of St. Veltas, and knew that she must be in imminent peril. But she knew not wherefore, neither could she tell how to escape it. Poor woman! all day long, and during part of the night, she employed herself in pondering what could be the reason of the count's displeasure; and at last, her heart growing heavier, she went down into the chapel to pray.

But scarcely had she finished her rosary, and risen to depart, when the hour of midnight struck. At that instant she beheld the four grave-stones of Comorre's four wives rise slowly up, and they themselves come out swathed in their funeral shrouds.

Tryphyna, more dead than alive, would have escaped; but the phantoms called to her:

"Take care, poor lost one; Comorre waits to kill thee."

"Me!" cried the countess; "and how have I offended, that he seeks my death?"

"You have told him you will shortly be a mother; and he knows, thanks to the evil one, that his first child will be his destroyer. Therefore it was that he took our lives also."

"My God! and have I fallen into hands so cruel?" cried Tryphyna, weeping. "If it is so, what hope remains for me? what can I do?"

"Go back to your father in the land of White-Wheat," said the phantoms.

"How can I fly?" returned the countess; "the giant dog of Comorre guards the gate."

"Give to him this poison, which killed me," said the first.

"How can I get down the high wall?" asked the young wife.

"Let yourself down by this cord, which strangled me," replied the second.

"But who will direct me through the darkness?" asked the princess.

"This fire, which consumed me," replied the third.

"How can I take so long a journey?" once more asked Tryphyna.

"Make use of this staff, which crushed my temples," said the last.

Comorre's wife took the staff, the torch, the cord, and the poison. She silenced the dog, she scaled the lofty wall, she penetrated the darkness, and took the road to Vannes, where her father dwelt.

Comorre, not being able to find her the next morning when he rose, sent his page to search for her in every chamber; but the page returned with the tidings that Tryphyna was no longer in the castle.

Then the count went up the donjon-tower, and looked out to the four winds.

To the north he saw a raven that croaked; to the sunrise a swallow on the wing; to the south a wailing sea-mew; and to the west a turtle-dove that sped away.

He instantly exclaimed that Tryphyna was in that direction; and having his horse saddled, set out in pursuit.

His unfortunate wife was still upon the border of the wood which surrounded the count's castle; but she was warned of his approach by seeing the ring grow black. Then she turned aside over the common, and came to the cabin of a poor shepherd, whose sole possession was an old magpie hanging in a cage.

The poor lady lay concealed there the whole day, bemoaning herself and praying; and when night came on, she once more set forth along the paths which skirt the fields of flax and corn.

Comorre, who had kept to the high road, could not find her; and after travelling two days, he returned the same way as far as the common. But there, as ill-luck would have it, he entered the shepherd's hut, and heard the magpie trying to recall the melancholy wailings it had listened to, and murmuring, "Poor Tryphyna! poor Tryphyna!" Then Comorre knew the countess had passed by that way, and calling his hunting-dog, set him on the track, and began to pursue her.

Meanwhile Tryphyna, pressed by terror, had walked on unresting, and was already drawing near to Vannes. But at last she felt herself unable to proceed; and turning into a wood, lay down upon the grass, where she gave birth to a son miraculously lovely, who was afterwards called St. Trever.

As she held him in her arms, and wept over him, half sorrowfully and half in joy, she perceived a falcon ornamented with a collar of gold. He was perched upon a neighbouring tree; and she knew him for her father's bird, the king of the land of White-Wheat. Calling him quickly by his name, the bird came down upon her knees; and giving him the warning-ring she had received from St. Veltas, she said, "Fly, falcon, hasten to my father's court, and carry him this ring. When he sees it, he will know I am in urgent danger, and will order his soldiers to horse. It is for you to lead them hither to save me."