The knight laughed loudly. “Why, lad,” he said, “I am no more Saint Michael than I am a thief, but merely a belted knight, such as one may meet with by the score in this land of chivalry.”
“I have never seen a knight,” replied Morvan; “and what may that be which you carry?”
“That is called a lance, my boy.”
“And what are these that you wear on your head and breast?”
“The one is a casque and the other a breast-plate. They are intended to protect me from the stroke of sword and spear. But tell me, lad, have you seen any one pass this way?”
“Yes, Seigneur, a man went by this very road not half an hour agone.”
“Thank you, boy,” replied the knight. “If you are asked who spoke to you, say the Count of Quimper,” and with these words he spurred his horse and set off down the road in the direction which the little Morvan had indicated.
Morvan returned to his mother, who had been sitting some distance away, and began to tell her of his meeting. He was so full of the gallantry of the knight he had met, his grace and martial bearing, that the good dame 214 could not stem the torrent of words which flowed from him.
“Oh, mother,” he babbled on, “you never saw anyone so splendid as him whom I have seen to-day, a man more beautiful than the Lord Michael the Archangel, whose image is in our church.”
His mother smiled and patted him fondly on the cheek.