“A draught of water, fair cousin,” he cried in a choking voice. “I perish with thirst.”
But no water was to be found in that place save that of the salt sea which lapped the sands of Grève. Efflam, however, was possessed of a faith that could overcome all difficulties. Kneeling, he engaged in earnest prayer, and, arising, struck the hard rock three times with his rod. “Our blessed Lord will send us water,” he exclaimed, and no sooner had he spoken than from the 281 stone a fountain of pure crystal water gushed and bubbled.
With a cry of ecstasy Arthur placed his lips to the stream and quaffed the much-needed refreshment. His vigour restored, he was about to return to the dragon’s cavern to renew the combat when he was restrained by Efflam.
“Cousin,” said he of Ireland, “you have tried what can be done by force; now let us see what can be achieved by prayer.”
Arthur, marvelling and humbled, sat near the young man as he prayed. All night he was busied in devotions, and at sunrise he arose and walked boldly to the mouth of the cavern.
“Thou spawn of Satan,” he cried, “in the name of God I charge thee to come forth!”
A noise as of a thousand serpents hissing in unison followed this challenge, and from out his lair trailed the great length of the dragon, howling and vomiting fire and blood. Mounting to the summit of a neighbouring rock, he vented a final bellow and then cast himself into the sea. The blue water was disturbed as by a maelstrom; then all was peace again.
So perished the dragon of the Lieue de Grève, and so was proved the superiority of prayer over human strength and valour. St Efflam and his men settled on the spot as hermits, and were miraculously fed by angels. Efflam’s wife, Enora, was borne to him by angels in that place, only to die when she had joined him. And when they came to tell Efflam that his new-found lady was no more and was lying cold in the cell he had provided for her, their news fell on deaf ears, for he too had passed away. He is buried in Plestin Church, and 282 his effigy, standing triumphant above an open-mouthed dragon, graces one of its many niches.
The Isle of Avalon
The Bretons believe that an island off Trégastel, on the coast of the department of Côtes-du-Nord, is the fabled Isle of Avalon to which King Arthur, sore wounded after his last battle, was borne to be healed of his hurts. With straining eyes the fisherman watches the mist-wrapped islet, and, peering through the evening haze, cheats himself into the belief that giant forms are moving upon its shores and that spectral shapes flit across its sands—that the dark hours bring back the activities of the attendant knights and enchantresses of the mighty hero of Celtdom, who, refreshed by his long repose, will one day return to the world of men and right the great wrongs which afflict humanity.