“Saving your grace,” said the page, “if you will hearken to my words you will not fight on the black charger. He has been bewitched. Moreover, you will notice that when you enter the lists to fight the Moor he will cast his mantle to the ground. But do not follow his example, for should your mantle fall beneath his the strength of the black giant will be doubled. When the Moor advances to the attack make the sign of the Cross with the shaft of your lance, and when he rushes upon you in his battle-fury receive him with the steel. If you do this you may be sure that your lance will not break.”
The heroes met within the lists. The King of France and his nobles had followed the giant Moor in order to witness the combat, and when all had been seated the trumpets sounded and the two champions rushed together with the utmost fury. They circled round one 220 another like eagles seeking an opening to strike. Now one struck, then the other, and the blood flowed down their bright armour. The Frankish King in high excitement called out:
“Ho! black crow of the sea, pierce me now this merle.”
At these words the giant assailed Morvan most furiously, as a great tempest assails a ship. The lances crossed, but that of the Moor broke like matchwood. Both leaped to earth, sword in hand, and rushed at each other like lions. Many lusty strokes were given and taken, and from their armour flew sparks like those from a smith’s anvil. Then the Moor, grasping his sword with both hands, made ready to strike a mighty blow, when swift and trenchantly Morvan thrust his blade far into the arm-pit and the heart and the giant tumbled to the earth like a falling tree. Morvan placed his foot on the dead man’s breast, withdrew his sword, and cut off the Moor’s head. Then, attaching the bleeding trophy to the pommel of his saddle, he rode home with it and affixed it to the gate of his castle. All men praised him for his doughty deed, but he gave the grace of his victory entirely to St Anne, and declared that he would build a house of prayer in her honour on the heights between Léguer and the Guindy.
Morvan Fights the King
One day Morvan sallied forth to encounter the King of the Franks himself. The King brought no fewer than five thousand mounted men-at-arms. As this host was about to set out, a great clap of thunder resounded in the vault of heaven, and the King’s nobles perforce regarded it as a bad omen.
“For heaven’s sake, sire, go not hence,” said one of them, “since the day has begun with such an evil token.”
“Impossible,” was the royal reply. “I have given the order; we must march.”
That morning, on the other hand, the sister of Morvan said to her brother: “My dear brother, if you love me seek not this combat, for if you do you will certainly go to your death, and what will become of me afterward? I see on the shore the white sea-horse, the symbol of Brittany. A monstrous serpent entwines him, seizing him round the hind legs and the body with his enormous coils. The sea-steed turns his head to seize the reptile. The combat is unequal. You are alone; the Franks are legion!”