"Dead--dead two hundred years ago, my son," said the Abbot solemnly. Then Sir Olger was filled with awe and wonder, as he began to realise that his dream of Avalon was true after all. Following the Abbot into the church he told his strange story; and the Abbot believed him, and rejoiced to think that a deliverer had been sent to France at last. Then Olger told him the secret of the torch, and begged him to make an iron treasure-house beneath the church, wherein so little air could come that the flame might dwindle to a single spark, and yet be nourished and preserved for many years to come. And when this was done, and the torch was safely disposed of, the Abbot begged to see the magic ring. But when Olger heedlessly drew it from his finger, immediately his youth and vigour vanished, and he became a helpless old man, whose skin hung loose like withered parchment, and whose only sign of life was the quivering of his toothless jaws. The terrified Abbot hastily put back the ring on the fleshless finger, and immediately Olger's strength and youth returned, and he rode off on Papillon to fight for France. The enemy was then stationed before Chartres, and so strong they were that the Franks were falling back disheartened before them, when suddenly, just as in former days, a gigantic knight riding a coal-black horse appeared in their midst, and everywhere he rode was marked by a long line of slain. Then the astonished Franks remembered the stories they had heard in the days of old, and murmured to one another: "It is Olger the Dane!" One after the other passed it on, till the murmur grew to a cry, and the cry to a shout of "Olger! Olger the Dane!" and, rushing upon the foe, they swept the paynims from the field. Over and over again did Olger thus lead the Franks to victory, until at length the land was free. And always while he fought the torch burned bright in the Church of St Faron, but when he rested it dwindled to a spark again.