At last he dropped face down upon the ground to escape the sting of fire; but the spider at once came up and wove about him a net which held him fast. In vain he called his two eagles to his aid. Mad with pain, knowing the ogre was helpless, they wished to avenge their long slavery; with flapping wings they rushed upon their former master and sought to tear him to pieces under his net of steel. At each stroke of their beaks they tore away a shred of flesh, and never stopped till they had picked his four bones clean. Then they lay down upon the carcass of the ogre, and, as the magician’s flesh was indigestible, they never got up again, but burst there on the spot.
As to Tonyk, he had untied his brother’s bonds, and, after embracing him with tears of joy, led him out of the ogre’s house to the edge of the cliff. The winged needle and the wasp were soon at hand, harnessed to the little cage of rushes, now changed to a coach. Praying the two brothers to take seats, while the spider posted herself behind like the lackey of some great house, the equipage went off with the speed of the wind.
Tonyk and Mylio in this way crossed with the utmost ease meadows, mountains, and villages (for in the air the roads are always in good order) until they were come to their uncle’s castle.
There the carriage alighted and rolled towards the drawbridge, where the brothers saw their two horses waiting for them; but at Tonyk’s saddlebow hung his purse and cloak; only the purse was bigger and much better lined, and the cloak was all embroidered with diamonds.
The wondering lad would have turned to the carriage to ask the meaning of this; but the carriage was gone, and in place of the wasp, the winged needle, and the spider there stood only three angels dazzling with light.
The two brothers, confounded, fell upon their knees. Then one of the angels drew near Tonyk and said to him:
“Be not afraid, dear youth; for the woman, the child, and the old man thou didst succor were no other than the Virgin Mary, Jesus her Son, and St. Joseph. They have given us to thee that thou mightest make the journey without danger, and, now that it is ended, we go back to Paradise. Bethink thee only of what has happened to thyself, and let this be a warning.”
With these words the three angels spread their wings and flew off like three swallows, chanting the hosannah which is sung in the churches.
The motive of this tale, it will be observed, is the beauty of charity, and it is perhaps another form of the ancient legend of St. Julian which is found, in one shape or another, in the traditions of many peoples. But charity and hospitality are pre-eminently Breton as they are Irish virtues. With a “God save all here!” the beggar walks unbidden and unrepulsed into the first cabin he comes to, and takes his seat, as one expected, by the fireside or at the table. No one dreams of turning him away, for he is the guest of God. The following legend also turns on the same virtues; but it is peculiar in introducing a personage almost unique in Breton tradition—viz., a wicked priest. “In our pious Armorica,” says M. Souvestre, “the respect accorded to the priesthood partakes of worship. The tonsure is a crown which gives a right to royal homage.” But in proportion to the veneration paid to the good priest is the contempt and detestation visited upon the derelict, as the few “constitutional” curés whom the Revolution found among the Breton and Vendean clergy were made fully aware. The reader of Carleton’s Tales and Legends of the Irish Peasantry may discover here another element of likeness in the kindred race.