“Yes, lord, there is a ship close at hand, beaten by wind and sea.”
“And what colour of a sail does she show?” asked Bran. “Is it black or white?”
“It is black, lord,” replied the sentinel, in a spirit of petty spite.
When the unhappy warrior heard these words he never spoke more.
That night his mother arrived at the town where he 227 had been imprisoned. She asked of the people: “Why do the bells sound?”
“Alas! lady,” said an ancient man, “a noble prisoner who lay in yonder tower died this night.”
With bent head the lady walked to the tower, her white hair falling upon her folded arms. When she arrived at its foot she said to the guard: “Open the door quickly; I have come to see my son.”
And when the great door was opened she threw herself upon the corpse of Bran and breathed her last.
On the battlefield of Kerlouan there is an oak which overshadows the shore and which marks the place where the Norsemen fled before the face of Even the Great. On this oak, whose leaves shine in the moon, the birds gather each night, the birds of the sea and the land, both of white and black feather. Among them is an old grey rook and a young crow. The birds sing such a beautiful song that the great sea keeps silence to hear it. All of them sing except the rook and the crow. Now the crow says: “Sing, little birds, sing; sing, little birds of the land, for when you die you will at least end your days in Brittany.”