One day the King of the Franks was sitting among his courtiers.
“Would that some one would rid me of this pestilent Morvan, who constantly afflicts the Frankish land and slays my doughtiest warriors,” he said, on hearing of a fresh exploit on the part of the Breton chief.
Then the King’s blackamoor, who heard these words, arose and stood before his master. He was tall and great of thew and sinew—a giant among men, towering head and shoulders even above the tall Frankish warriors.
“Allow me to fulfil your wishes, sire,” he said. “Sir Morvan has sent me his glove, and if to-morrow I do not bring you his head I will willingly part with my own.”
On the next morning Morvan’s squire came to his master trembling violently.
“Seigneur,” he said, with ashy countenance, “the King’s Moor is here and bids you defiance.”
Morvan rose and took his sword.
“Alas! my dear master,” said the squire, “take heed what you do, I pray you, for I assure you that this Moor is nothing but a demon who practises the most horrible enchantments.”
Morvan laughed. “Well, we shall see whether this demon can withstand cold steel or not,” he said. “Go and saddle my black horse.”