The touching words of Nominoë, his tender embrace, the memory of his sister, the last words of Tina, the paternal affection he had always felt for his nephew disarmed Tankeru. The hammer slipped from his hand and fell at his feet. At that moment Serdan and Salaun Lebrenn, whom the vassals had freed, entered precipitately into the cell. Serdan cried out: "Flee! Flee! The fire is reaching the building!" Having overheard his son's words in answer to Tankeru's threat to kill him, Salaun took the blacksmith's hand and pressing it warmly in his own, said: "Brother, I swear to God! Despite the immensity of the wrong that he has done, Nominoë does deserve, if not your pardon, at least your pity!" "The fire! The fire!" cried several peasants who had descended into the prison to deliver the captives, and who, having regained the stairs, now ran through the gallery of cells. In view of the increasing danger, the blacksmith, Salaun and his son dashed across the black clouds of smoke, picking their way by the ruddy reflections which the conflagration projected upon the steps of the staircase through the prison gate, that looked like the mouth of a roaring furnace. Nominoë followed close upon the steps of his father and the blacksmith who preceded him. Despite the imminence of the danger that he ran, the youth's thoughts now returned to Mademoiselle Plouernel. In heartrending accents he muttered: "Oh, woe! Oh, woe! The fire is consuming the castle. What may have become of her? Where may Bertha be?" "She is safe!" answered Serdan, who, happening to walk close by the side of Nominoë, had overheard him. "The peasants informed us that, once masters of the castle, their companions took care of their _good demoiselle_. A carriage was quickly hitched to a team of horses, and Mademoiselle Plouernel departed with her nurse and an equerry to Mezlean. The Marchioness, terror-stricken, died of apoplexy."