"It is my opinion that you should notify madam. She may become justly suspicious of that big order for linen. Hem!—hem!"
"I shall follow your advice, Gildas."
"And you will be wise if you do! Oh, my dear lassy, these men with helmets—"
"Well, now, I am ready. Let's have your song."
"It is an awful story, Jeanike! Mother told it to me a hundred times in the evenings, just as my grandmother had told it to her, and just as my grandmother's grandmother—"
"Come, Gildas," broke in Jeanike, laughing. "If you keep up at that rate from grandmother to grandmother, you are bound to go back to our mother Eve."
"Sure! Do our countrypeople not transmit from generation to generation narratives that go back to—"
"A thousand and fifteen hundred years, and even further back, like the stories of Myrdin and of The Baron of Jauioz, with which I have been rocked to sleep in my cradle. I am well aware of it, Gildas."
"Well, Jeanike, the song that I have in mind is about people who wear helmets, and prowl around young girls. It is a frightful story. It is called The Three Red Monks," said Gildas, looking formidable;—"The Three Red Monks; or, The Sire of Plouernel."
"What's that?" asked Jeanike interestedly, being struck by the name. "The Sire of—"