CHAPTER I.

IN THE BLACK MOUNTAINS.

In the year 818, seven years after Amael and his grandson Vortigern left the court of Charles, the Emperor of the Franks, to return to their home in Brittany, three riders, accompanied by a footman, were one evening painfully climbing one of the steep hills of the ridge of the Black Mountains, that raise their rugged ribs to the southwest of Armorica. When, having reached the top of the rocky pile over which the path wound its way, the travelers looked below, they saw at their feet a long chain of plains and hillocks, some covered with rye and wheat ready for the harvesters, others running northward like vast carpets of heather. Here and yonder, vast moors also were perceived stretching out as far as the eye could follow. A few straggling villages, reached by an avenue of trees, raised the roofs of their houses in the midst of impassible bogs that served for natural defences. The panorama was enlivened by herds of black sheep that browsed over the ruddy heath or the green valleys, watered by innumerable running streams. Among the green were also seen steers and cows, and especially a large number of horses of the Breton stock, strong for the plow, fiery in war.

The three riders, preceded by the footman, now proceeded to descend the further slope of the rugged hill. One of the three, clad in ecclesiastical robes, was Witchaire, considered one of the richest abbots of Gaul. The vast lands of his almost royal abbey bordered on the frontiers of Armorica. His two companions, on horseback like himself, were monks belonging to his dependency, and both wore the garb of the religious Order of St. Benoit. The two monks rode behind the abbot at a little distance, leading between them a packsaddle mule loaded with the baggage of their superior, a man of short stature, sharp eye, and a smile that was at times pious, at other times cunning. The mountain guide, a robust, thick-set man in the vigor of life, wore the antique costume of the Breton Gauls--wide breeches of cloth held at the waist by a leather belt, a jacket of wool, and, hanging from his shoulders on the same side with his wallet, a cloak of goat-skin, although the season was summer. His hair, only partly covered with a woolen cap, fell over his shoulders. From time to time he leaned upon his _pen-bas_, a long staff made of holly and terminating in a crook.

The burning August sun, now at its hottest, darted its rays upon the guide, the two monks and Abbot Witchaire. Reining in his horse, the latter said to the guide:

"The heat is suffocating; these granite rocks radiate it upon us as hot as if they issued from a furnace; our mounts are exhausted. I decry yonder, at our feet, a thick forest; could you not lead us to it? We could then take rest in the shade."

Karouer, the guide, shook his head, and answered, pointing with his _pen-bas_ in the direction of the dense woods: "To reach them we would have to make a leap of two hundred feet, or a circuit of nearly three leagues over the mountains. Which shall it be?"

"Let us, then, pursue our route, my trusty guide. But tell us how long will it take us to arrive in the valley of Lokfern?"

"Look yonder, below, away below, close to the horizon. Do you see the last of those bluish crests? That is the Menez-c'Hom, the highest peak of the Black Mountains. The other peak towards the west, and lying somewhat nearer, is Lach-Renan. It is between those two peaks that lies the valley of Lokfern, where Morvan, the husbandman and Chief of Brittany lives."

"Are you certain that he will be at his farm-house?"

"A husbandman always returns to his farm-house after sunset. We shall find him there."

"Do you know Morvan personally?"

"I am of his tribe. I fought under him at the time of our last struggles against the Franks, when Charles, the Emperor, lived."

"Is this Morvan married, do you know?"

"His wife Noblede is the worthy spouse of Morvan. She is of the stock of Joel. That says everything. We honor and venerate her."

"Who is that Joel, whom you mentioned?"

"One of the worthiest men, whose memory Armorica has preserved green. His daughter, Hena, the Virgin of the Isle of Sen, offered her own life in sacrifice for the safety of Gaul when the Romans invaded these parts."

"I have been told that your people apprehend an invasion of the Franks in Brittany, and that you are making ready for a declaration of war from Louis the Pious, son of the great Charles."

"Have you seen any preparations for war since you crossed our frontier?"

"I have seen the husbandmen in the fields, the shepherds leading their flocks, the cities open and tranquil. But it is known that in your country, woodmen, husbandmen, shepherds and town folks transform themselves into soldiers at a moment's notice."

"Yes, when our country is threatened with invasion."

"And do you apprehend such an invasion?"

Karouer looked at the abbot fixedly, smiled sarcastically, made no answer, whistled, and presently broke out into a Breton song, mechanically whirling his _pen-bas_ as he strode rapidly forward in the lead of the three monks.

Night drew on. Karouer and the dignitaries whom he guided, having been all day on the march, were now approaching one of the highest points on the mountain path that they had been following, when, struck by an unexpected spectacle, Witchaire suddenly reined in his horse.

The sight that took the abbot by surprise was, indeed, startling. A flame, hardly distinguishable by reason of its great distance, and yet perceptible on the horizon, whose outlines the dusk had not yet wholly blotted out, had barely arrested his attention, when, almost instantaneously, similar tongues of fire gradually shot up from the distant tops of the long chain of the Black Mountains. The fires gained in brilliancy and size in the measure that they broke out nearer and nearer to the spot where the abbot stood. Suddenly, only twenty paces away from him, the startled prelate perceived a bluish gleam through a dense smoke. The gleam speedily changed into a brilliant flame, that, shooting upwards toward the starry sky, spread a light so bright that the abbot, his monks, his guide, the rocks round about and a good portion of the crag of the mountain stood illumined as if at noon. A few minutes later similar bonfires continued to be kindled from hill to hill, tracing back, as it seemed, the route that the travelers had left behind, and losing themselves in the distance in the evening haze. The abbot remained mute with stupefaction. Karouer emitted three times a gutteral and loud cry resembling that of a night bird. A similar cry, proceeding from behind the plateau of rocks where the nearest bonfire was burning, responded to the signal from Karouer.

"What fires are these that are springing up from hill-top to hill-top?" the abbot inquired with intense curiosity the moment he recovered from his astonishment. "It must be some signal."

"At this moment," answered Karouer, "similar fires are burning from all the hill-tops of Armorica, from the mountains of Arres to the Black Mountains and the ocean."

"But to what purpose?"

As was his wont, Karouer made no answer to such pointed interrogatories, but striking up some Breton song, quickened his steps, while he whirled his _pen-bas_ in the air.