"The knight, he galloped away to Kemper, To the Count-Bishop's palace he rode in full haste. 'Sire Bishop of Cornouailles, wake up! Wake up quick!' cried the knight, As he battered at the gate. 'You lie snugly in your bed, Stretched out cosily upon soft down; But a young girl there is who is now groaning At the bottom of a pit of hard earth, And is praying for some oil, And baptismal for the babe that is with her; Extreme unction she prays for herself.' "By orders the Count-Bishop hastened to issue in advance, The grave at the foot of the altar was dug open; and, Just as the Bishop arrived, the poor young girl Was drawn up from the depths of her grave. She was drawn up, her babe sound asleep on her breast. Her teeth had torn the flesh on her arms, Her nails had torn the flesh on her breast, On her white breast down to her heart. "And the Bishop, When this sight he saw, Fell down on both knees, and wept by the grave. Three days and three nights he spent there in prayer. At the end of the third day, All the red monks standing round, The babe of the dead girl stirred by the light of the tapers, It opened its eyes, It rose, It walked, It walked straight to the three monks in red, And it spoke, and said: 'It is he-- Gonthram of Plouernel."[5] "Well, now, my lassy," asked Gildas as he shook his head warningly, "is not that a terrible story? Did I not tell you that those helmet-wearers were ever prowling around young girls like so many ravishing sparrow-hawks? But Jeanike, what are you pondering? You do not answer me. You seem steeped in revery." "It is, indeed, quite extraordinary, Gildas. Was that bandit of a red monk named the Sire of Plouernel?" "Yes." "Often have I heard Monsieur Lebrenn mention the name of that family as if he had some cause of complaint against them, and say, whenever he referred to some wicked man: He must be a son of Plouernel!' as one would say: 'He must be a son of the devil!'" "That is a puzzle--a puzzling house this is," remarked Gildas meditatively, and even in a tone of uneasiness. "To think of Monsieur Lebrenn having complaint against the family of a red monk, who has been dead eight or nine hundred years. All the same, Jeanike, I hope the story may stand you in good stead." "Go to, Gildas!" exclaimed Jeanike, laughing. "Do you imagine there are any red monks in St. Denis Street, and that they carry off young girls in omnibuses?" As Jeanike was saying this, a valet in morning livery stepped into the shop and asked for Monsieur Lebrenn. "He is not in," said Gildas.