And the daughter repeated, translating slowly into Breton:
"He swears that he will look after him all his life as if he were his brother."
The old mother had risen, upright as ever, stern and brusque; she had taken from the wall a picture of Christ and had advanced towards me, addressing me as if she wished to take me at my word, there and then, with naïve, impulsive simplicity:
"It is on this, sir, that she asks you to swear."
"No, mother, no!" said Yves, in confusion, trying to interpose, to stop her.
But I held out my arm towards this picture of Christ, a little surprised, a little moved, perhaps, and I repeated:
"I swear to do what I have said."
But my arm trembled a little because I foresaw that my responsibility would be a heavy one in the future.
And then I took Yves' hand. His head was bowed in thought:
"And you will do what I tell you, you will follow me . . . brother?"