The two men seemed struck with the singular coincidence: at a distance, the chant of revolt, of war and blood; close to them, the girl's angelic voice, singing the praises of Hena, one of the sweetest glories of Armorican Gaul. Presently, however, as Odille yielded more and more to the gentle pressure of slumber, her voice was heard ever fainter until from a murmur, it became hardly audible. The girl's head drooped on her breast, and with her back sustained by the trunk of the tree she fell into profound sleep.
"Poor child!" said Ronan as he covered her with his cloak. "She is overcome with fatigue. May her sleep give her rest and strength!"
"Ronan," observed the hermit fastening a penetrating look upon the Vagre, "the chant of Hena made you weep—"
"It is true, good hermit."
"What is the reason of such emotion?"
"A family remembrance—if a Vagre, a 'Wand'ring Man,' a 'Wolf,' a 'Wolf's-Head' can be at all said to have a family—"
"And what is that family remembrance?"
"The sweet Hena, to whom the chant refers, was one of my ancestresses."
"How do you know that?"
"My father often told me so; in my childhood he used to relate to me the histories of olden days, of centuries ago."