But Morvan was already beyond ear-shot.
As the hermit of the wood of Helléan[48] slept three knocks sounded on his door.
“Good hermit,” said some one, “open the door. I seek an asylum and help from you.”
The wind blew coldly from the country of the Franks. It was the hour when savage beasts wander here and there in search of their prey. The hermit did not rise with alacrity.
“Who are you who knock at my door at this hour of night demanding an entrance?” he asked sulkily; “and by what sign shall I know whether you are a true man or otherwise?”
“Priest, I am well known in this land. I am Morvan Lez-Breiz, the Hatchet of Brittany.”
“I will not open my door to you,” said the hermit hastily. 222 “You are a rebel; you are the enemy of the good King of the Franks.”
“How, priest!” cried Morvan angrily, “I am a Breton and no traitor or rebel. It is the King of the Franks who has been a traitor to this land.”
“Silence, recreant!” replied the hermit. “Rail not against the King of the Franks, for he is a man of God.”