At these words Morvan drew his great sword.
The old hermit of the wood heard some one knocking on the door of his cell. He opened it quickly and saw the young squire standing before him. He started 218 back at the sight of the youth’s blood-stained armour and death-pale countenance.
“Ha, my son,” he cried, “you are sorely hurt. Come and wash your wounds at the fountain and repose for a little.”
“I may not rest here, good father,” replied the squire, shaking his head. “I have come to find water to take to my young master, who has fallen in the fight. Thirty warriors lie slain by his hand. Of these the Chevalier Lorgnez was the first.”
“Brave youth!” said the hermit. “Alas that he has fallen!”
“Do not grieve, father. It is true that he has fallen, but it is only from fatigue. He is unwounded and will soon recover himself.”
When he was recovered Morvan betook him to the chapel of St Anne and rendered the gifts he had promised her.
“Praise be to Saint Anne,” cried he, “for she it is who has gained this victory.”