Jean Marcille was evidently the possessor of a voice of no mean merit, and thunderous applause greeted song after song. Wild ballads of ancient Brittany he sang, telling of the fate of the wizard Myrddyn, who, for all his wisdom, was beguiled to tell his secret to the treacherous Vyvyan, knowing all the while of her cruel intention, yet unable to withstand the siren wiles of her woman’s tongue, and so lies sleeping for ever in his tomb in the forest of Broceliande, under the fatal stone where his false love has enchanted him. Then, still pursuing the mournful themes with which Brittany seems to abound, and which her children hold so dear, he sang of the romantic loves of Abelard the sage and Helöise the beautiful—loves which, crushed and killed in sorrow and despair, bloomed immortally in poetry and song. But presently his voice rang with a more martial strain, as, sweeping the chords of his harp, he sang the inspiriting songs of valour—songs these, perchance, of his own weaving, for they told of the distresses of the fair young Duchess Anne, of her helpless condition amongst ravening enemies, of her gallant Bretons rallying around her, of the intrepidity of Breton heroes, of the siege of Gwengamp, where the brave Captains Chero and Gouicket defied the traitor Rohan’s call, and declared that whilst there was a Duchess in Brittany they would not give up her towns; and of Tomina Al-Léan, the wife of Gouicket, who took her husband’s place on the walls when he lay helpless and wounded below. Such ballads, at such a time, when deeds of chivalry were brave men’s daily acts, and ladies had no smiles for recreant knight or coward lover, never failed to stir their listeners to a frenzy of enthusiasm, and knights drew their swords as they sprang to their feet, and, with goblets in their right hands, drank to their little Duchess, and flung the shivering glass to the ground. Only, perhaps, the enthusiasm of Guillaume de Coray was a little forced, and his lips curved more than once into a mocking smile as he watched the ring of flushed faces, and reflected how small a concern it was of his did Duchess or King rule in Brittany, provided his own schemes went well. The stranger minstrel needed little pressing to stay at the Château of Mereac, for truly it seemed that he fell almost naturally into his place in the household. A welcome addition, indeed, to enliven the shortening and gloomy days, for the voice of old Antoine was growing cracked and faltering, and his songs became wearisome by reason of oft repetition; nor had the elder man the facility in weaving new ones which his young rival seemed to possess—a fact which tended to jealousy, though Antoine was too wise to let such be apparent.