“Of God, say you? Nay, rather of the devil! Has he not ravaged and wasted the Breton land? The gold that he wrings from the Breton folk is expended for the good of Satan. Open, hermit, open!”
“Not so, my son, for should I do so the Franks would surely fix a quarrel upon me.”
“You refuse?” shouted Morvan in a voice of thunder. “Good; then I shall burst into your cell,” and with these words he threw himself against the door, which creaked ominously.
“Hold, my son, hold!” cried the old hermit in tremulous tones. “Forbear and I will open to you”; and seizing a torch he lit it at the remains of his fire and went to open the door.
The Severed Head
He unlocked it and drew it back, but as he did so he recoiled violently, for he saw advancing upon him a terrible spectre, holding its head in its two hands. Its eyes seemed full of blood and fire, and rolled round and round in a most horrible manner. The hermit was about to shriek in terror when the head of the apparition, after laughing grimly, addressed him:
“Come now, old Christian, do not be afraid. God permits this thing to be. He has allowed the Franks 223 to decapitate me, but for a time only, and as you see me now I am only a phantom. But He will permit you yourself to replace my head on my shoulders if you will.”
The hermit stammered and drew back. This was not his first encounter with the supernatural, which he had good reason to dread, but like all Bretons he had come under the magnetism of Morvan, even although he believed that the King of the Franks was his rightful overlord; so, steeling himself against his natural timidity, he said:
“If God permits this thing I shall be very willing to replace your head on your shoulders.”
“Take it, then,” said the decapitated Morvan, and with trembling hands the priest took the gory trophy and replaced it on the Breton chief’s shoulders, saying at the same time: “I replace your head, my son, in the name of God the Father, the Son, and the Spirit.”