"Old Caswallan," said one of the laborers when the druid had finished the long and inspiring strain that warmed the blood of his hearers with martial ardor, "let the accursed Franks come again, and we shall say, like Lez-Breiz: 'With the aid of our two arms, let us make them jump again to-day'--" A furious barking of the shepherd dogs, that for some little time had been emitting low and intermittent growls, interrupted at this moment the remarks of the laborers, and all turned their eyes towards the gate of the enclosure, whither the dogs had precipitated themselves furiously. CHAPTER III. ABBOT AND BRETON. The strangers whose approach the dogs announced were Abbot Witchaire, his two monks and his guide Karouer. Preceded by the guide, who pacified the alarm of the watchful animals, the clerical cavalcade rode into the enclosure, while Karouer informed the abbot: "This is the house of Morvan. We have arrived at our destination. You may now dismount." "What are those torches yonder for?" asked the prelate descending from his horse, the reins of which he threw over to one of his monks. "What is that muffled sound I hear?" "It is the sound of the flails. Doubtlessly Morvan is threshing the grain that he has harvested. Come, I shall lead you to him." Abbot Witchaire and his guide approached the group of laborers, upon whom the torches cast a clear light. Morvan, intently at work, and the noise of the flails deafening the sound of the steps and voices of the new arrivals, failed to hear them. Not until Karouer had tapped the Chief of the Chiefs upon the shoulder in order to draw the latter's attention to him, did Morvan turn to look. Recognizing Karouer, the Chief of the Chiefs stopped a moment and said: "Oh! Is that you, Karouer? What tidings do you bring from our man?" "I bring him to you in person," answered Karouer, pointing to his traveling companion. "He stands before you in flesh and bone." "Are you the Abbot Witchaire?" asked Morvan, slightly out of breath with the heavy work that he had been performing; and crossing his robust arms over the handle of his flail, he added: "As I expected your visit, I have had supper prepared for you. Come to table." "I prefer first to speak to you." "Noblede," said Morvan, wiping the perspiration that inundated his forehead with the back of his hand, "a torch, my dear wife!" And turning to the abbot: "Follow me." Taking up one of the torches that were stuck at the edge of the well, Noblede preceded her husband and Abbot Witchaire to the chamber that was reserved for guests. Two large beds stood ready, as also a big table furnished with cold meats, milk, bread and fruit. After placing the torch into one of the iron clamps fastened in the wall, Noblede was about to withdraw when Morvan said to her in a significant tone: "Dear wife, come and kiss me good night when the threshing is done."