“Think of your mother, lad,” said he. “What if you never return to her? Think of her grief should you die this day.”
“Ah, Seigneur,” entreated the stripling, “if you love me, grant my prayer; let me fight along with you.”
When Morvan rode out to battle an hour later his squire rode beside him, knee to knee. Passing near the church of St Anne of Armor they entered.
“O Saint Anne, most holy dame,” prayed Morvan, “I am not yet twenty years old and I have been in twenty battles. All those I have gained by your aid, and if I return again to this land I shall make you a rich gift. I shall give you enough candles to go three times round the walls of your church, and thrice round your churchyard—aye, 217 thrice round your lands, when I come home again; and further I shall give you a banner of white satin with an ivory staff. Also shall I give you seven silver bells which will ring gaily night and day above your head. And three times on my knees will I draw water for your use.”
The enemy saw Morvan coming from afar. He was mounted on a small white ass with a halter of hemp, to signify his contempt for them. Lorgnez, his chief foe, came against him with a troop of warriors, while Morvan had only his little squire behind him. The foemen came on, ten by ten, until they reached the Wood of Chestnuts. For a moment the little squire was dismayed, but a word from his master rallied him, and, drawing his sword, he spurred forward. Soon they came front to front with Lorgnez and hailed him in knightly fashion.
“Ho! Seigneur Lorgnez, good day to you.”
“Good morrow, Seigneur Morvan. Will you engage in single combat?”
“No; I despise your offer. Go back to your King and tell him that I mock him; and as for yourself, I laugh at you and those with you. Return to Paris, stay among your women, take off your mail and put on the silken armour of fops.”
Lorgnez’s face flamed with anger.
“By heaven!” he cried, “the lowest varlet in my company shall hew your casque from your head for this!”