“Thy king I scorn, as I scorn thee,
Thy sword, and all thine armed menie:
Return ‘mid womankind to be,
And wear gilt garments gallantly
At Paris; and begone from me!
“Sir Lez-Breiz, say to me, I pray,
In what wood saw you first the day?
The meanest serf that eats my bread
Shall make your helm leap off your head.”
Then Lez-Breiz swift his good sword drew:
“The son shall make full well to rue
Him who the father never knew.”
V.
In friendly wise the hermit spake,
As at his door he stood—
To the young page of Lez-Breiz spake
The hermit of the wood:
“Thou speed’st apace the forest through,
Thine armor dashed with blood:
Come to my hermitage, my child,
Come in for rest and food;
Come in and wash thy stains away.”
Thus spake that hermit good.