“My friend, you lie!”
And the other voices, those that were grumbling in the interior of the furnace, swelled and puffed. The fire, that no person was blowing, kept up by itself, hot as the soul of a forge should be. The crucible became red, and the stones of the furnace were dyed a deep scarlet.
In vain did Sylvestre Ker sweep with his holly broom; between the branches, covered with sharp leaves, the spirits passed—nothing could catch them; and the heat was so great the boy was bathed in perspiration.
After the bells had finished their second peal he said: “I am stifling. I will open the window to let out the heat as well as this herd of evil spirits.”
But as soon as he opened the window the whole country commenced to laugh under its white mantle of snow—barren heath, ploughed land, Druid stones, even to the enormous oaks of the forest, with their glistening summits, that shook their frosty branches, saying: “Sylvestre Ker will go! Sylvestre Ker will not go!”
Not a spirit from within flew out, while all the outside spirits entered, muttering, chattering, laughing: “Yes, yes, yes, yes! No, no, no, no!” And I believe they fought.
At the same time the sound of a cavalcade advancing was heard on the flinty road that passed before the tower; and Sylvestre Ker recognized the long procession of the monks of Ruiz, led by the grand abbot, Gildas the Wise, arrayed in cope and mitre, with his crosier in his hand, going to the Mass of Plouharnel, as the convent-chapel was being rebuilt.
When the head of the cavalcade approached the tower the grand abbot cried out:
“My armed guards, sound your horns to awaken Dame Josserande’s son!”
And instantly there was a blast from the horns, which rang out until Gildas the Wise exclaimed: