"Come, Gildas," broke in Jeanike, laughing. "If you keep up at that rate from grandmother to grandmother, you are bound to go back to our mother Eve."
"Sure! Do our countrypeople not transmit from generation to generation narratives that go back to – "
"A thousand and fifteen hundred years, and even further back, like the stories of Myrdin and of The Baron of Jauioz, with which I have been rocked to sleep in my cradle. I am well aware of it, Gildas."
"Well, Jeanike, the song that I have in mind is about people who wear helmets, and prowl around young girls. It is a frightful story. It is called The Three Red Monks," said Gildas, looking formidable; – "The Three Red Monks; or, The Sire of Plouernel."
"What's that?" asked Jeanike interestedly, being struck by the name. "The Sire of – "
"The Sire of Plouernel."
"Singular!"
"Singular what?"
"I've heard Monsieur Lebrenn mention that name, more than once."
"The name of the Sire of Plouernel? On what occasion?"
"I'll tell you later. First of all, let's have the song of the Three Red Monks. It will interest me doubly."
"You must know, first of all, my lassy, that the red monks were Templars, and wore a sword and helmet, just like that sparrow-hawk of a dragoon."
"Very well, now go on. Madam may come down any moment, and monsieur is due here now."
"Listen attentively, Jeanike."
And Gildas commenced the following recitative. It was not sung, exactly, but was chanted like a psalm in a grave and melancholic voice:
"At every limb I shudder,
I shudder at the sorrows that afflict our people.
I shudder at the thought of the event that took place,
That has just taken place in the town of Kemper,
That took place at Kemper just a year ago.
"Katelik walked her way as she counted her beads,
When three monks in red, all three Templars were they,
And armed at all points, joined Katelik; three monks,
Astride of their huge barbed steeds,
Barbed from mane down to hoofs.
"'Come with us, you pretty young maid;
Come to the convent with us.
Neither gold will you want for,
Nor eke silver coin.'
'May it please, Sires, your graces,
Not I will join you in your ride,'
Said young Katelik. 'I fear your swords,
That hang by your sides.
No, Sires,
I shall not, nor can I go with you.
Too wicked the tales that one hears about you.'
"'Come with us, come to the convent, young maid.
Feel not alarmed about us.'
'No, I shall not proceed to the convent.
Seven young maids of the fields
Once went there, 'tis said;
Seven handsome maids, ripe for their nuptials they were.
Yet they never came out from the convent again.'
"'If seven young maids,' cried up Gonthram of Plouernel,
One of the three monks in red,
'If seven young maids went in,
You, pretty maid, the eighth will be.'
With this she was seized,
And pulled up on horseback;
With this the three rode to the convent in hot haste,
The maid laid across the saddle,
And gagged to smother her cries."
"Oh, the poor dear girl!" exclaimed Jeanike, clasping her hands. "And what is to become of her in that convent of the red monks?"
"You will learn presently, my lassy," answered Gildas with a sigh; and he proceeded with his recitation:
"Seven months later, or eight,
Or perhaps even more,
Great was the dilemma of the monks in their Abbey,
'What, brothers,' they said,
'Shall with this girl now be done?'
'Let us bury her, to-night let us bury her,
At the foot of the main altar.
None of her folks will there seek to find her.'"
"Great God!" cried Jeanike. "They must have killed her, those bandit monks, and were in a hurry to rid themselves of the body."
"I tell you once more, my lassy, these people with helmets and swords are always up to some mischief or other," remarked Gildas dogmatically; and he proceeded:
"Lo, toward night-fall the vault of heaven is rent.
Rain, wind, hail; thunder the most frightful cracks the air.
A poor knight, his clothes drenched with rain,
Looks about for asylum,
Arrives at the church-door of the Abbey.
He peeps through the key-hole.
He sees a small taper burning;
He sees monks digging at the foot of the altar;
He sees the young girl lying prostrate,
Her little bare feet tied together;
He hears her, desolate, moaning, lamenting,
Begging for mercy.
"'Oh, Sires,' she cried, 'for our dear Lord's sake,
Let me live.
I shall wander about in the dark by night;
By day I shall hide.'
The taper went out.
But the knight, he budged not away from the door,
And he heard the voice of the young girl
Imploring from the depth of the grave,
And praying:
'Pray give me some oil, and baptismal
For the babe I carry with me!'
"The knight, he galloped away to Kemper,
To the Count-Bishop's palace he rode in full haste.
'Sire Bishop of Cornouailles, wake up!
Wake up quick!' cried the knight,
As he battered at the gate.
'You lie snugly in your bed,
Stretched out cosily upon soft down;
But a young girl there is who is now groaning
At the bottom of a pit of hard earth,
And is praying for some oil,
And baptismal for the babe that is with her;
Extreme unction she prays for herself.'
"By orders the Count-Bishop hastened to issue in advance,
The grave at the foot of the altar was dug open; and,
Just as the Bishop arrived, the poor young girl
Was drawn up from the depths of her grave.
She