At the time when Cæsar invaded Gaul (may his name be accursed!), Joel lived two leagues from Alrè, not far from the sea and the isle of Roswallan, near the edge of the forest of Karnak, the most celebrated forest of Breton Gaul.
One evening towards nightfall—the evening before the anniversary of the day when Hena, his daughter, his well-beloved daughter was born unto him—it is now eighteen years ago—Joel and his eldest son Guilhern were returning home in a chariot drawn by four of those fine little Breton oxen whose horns are smaller than their ears. Joel and his son had been laying marl on their lands, as is usually done in the autumn, so that the lands may be in good condition for seed-time in the spring. The chariot was slowly climbing up the hill of Craig'h at a place where that mountainous road is narrowed between two rocks, and from where the sea is seen at a distance, and still farther away the Isle of Sen—the mysterious and sacred isle.
"Father," Guilhern said to Joel, "look down there below on the flank of the hill. There is a rider coming this way. Despite the steepness of the descent, he has put his horse to a gallop."
"As sure as the good Elldud invented the plow, that man will break his neck."
"Where can he be riding to in such a hurry? The sun is going down; the wind blows high and threatens a storm; and that road that leads to the desert strand—"
"Son, that man is not of Breton Gaul. He wears a furred cap and a shaggy coat, and his tanned-skin hose are fastened with red bands."
"A short axe hangs at his right and he has a long knife in a sheath at his left."
"His large black horse does not seem to stumble in the descent.... Where can he be going in such a hurry?"
"Father, the man must have lost his way."