Witchaire thrilled with joy at Morvan's question. He concluded the Breton had decided in favor of base submission. At that juncture Noblede entered the apartment to give her husband the good-night kiss. At sight of her the Breton blushed. He allowed his wife to approach him without affectionately advancing to meet her, as was his wont. The Breton woman almost guessed the cause of the embarrassed manner of Morvan, and of the triumphant looks of the Frankish abbot. Concealing her grief, the woman walked to her husband, who remained seated, and kissed his hand. A tremor shook the Breton chief's frame; his will, shaken for a moment, regained its own command; he leaped up and passionately clasped his wife to his breast. Happy and proud at feeling the throbbing of her own heart answered by her husband's, the Gallic woman cried, casting a look of contempt at the priest: "Whence comes this stranger? What does he want? Is he a messenger of peace or of war? Race of priests, race of vipers." "This monk is sent by the King of the Franks," answered the Breton chief; "I do not yet know whether he brings peace or war." Noblede looked at her husband with increasing astonishment, when the abbot, considering the moment favorable to obtain the desired answer from Morvan, said: "I am to return immediately. What answer shall I carry to Louis the Pious?" "You cannot resume your journey without taking some rest," Noblede hastened to observe, while, with her eyes, she interrogated her husband, who seemed to have relapsed into incertitude. "It will be time enough to depart early in the morning. Remain here over night to recover your strength." "No, no!" exclaimed the abbot with impatience, fearing the influence of the Gallic woman upon her husband. "I return immediately. Shall I take to Louis the Pious words of peace or of war? I must have a categoric answer." The Breton chief, however, rose from his seat, and walking towards the door of the apartment answered Witchaire: "I shall use the few remaining hours of the night to think the matter over; to-morrow you will have my answer." Saying this, and despite the insistence of the abbot upon an immediate answer, Morvan left the guest's room, accompanied by Noblede. A few minutes later, Morvan, his wife, Vortigern and Caswallan, assembled at a secluded spot, under the spreading branches of a tall oak tree not far from the house, to consider the subject of Abbot Witchaire's errand to Brittany. "What does this messenger of the King of the Franks want?" asked Vortigern of Morvan. "If we consent to pay tribute to Louis the Pious and to recognize him as our sovereign, we shall escape an implacable war. I know not what answer to make. I hesitate before the prospect of the disasters that will attend a new struggle--the massacres, the fires." "Hesitate! Yield to threats!" "Brother," answered Morvan with deep sadness, "the Breton people are no longer what they once were."