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Updated: June 26, 2025
I looked at him and recognized that argument would be useless. But still I said, "It will be a loss to history, Monsieur Le Bihan." "All the worse for history, then," said the enlightened Mayor of St. Gildas. We had sauntered back to the gravel pit while speaking. The men of Bannalec were carrying the bones of the English soldiers toward the St.
She was big with child, so she fled, but her husband pursued her and cut her throat. The weeping father commanded Saint Gildas to keep his promise, and the Saint resuscitated Triphine. "As you see, this legend comes much nearer than the history of our Bluebeard to the told tale arranged by the ingenious Perrault.
My grandfather Gildas told me that he heard from his father that, a few years after the death of Victoria the Great, the first Bagaudy took place, not in Britanny, but in the other provinces. Irritated at seeing herself again reduced to the level of a Roman province, as a result of the treason of Tetrik, and of being obliged to pay heavy imposts into the empire's fisc, Gaul rose in rebellion.
"It suits," said Tregunc, fumbling for his pipe in a silly way that annoyed Le Bihan. "Then go and begin your work," cried the mayor impatiently; and Tregunc started across the moors toward St. Gildas, taking off his velvet-ribboned cap to me and gripping his sea rake very hard. "You offer him more than my salary," said the mayor, after a moment's contemplation of his silver buttons.
Sylvestre Ker obeyed, and when he had finished, Josserande kissed him, took up her staff, and proceeded towards the convent of Ruiz to ask, according to her custom, aid and counsel from Gildas the Wise. On the way, men, women, and children looked curiously at her, for throughout the country it was already known that she was the mother of a wolf.
Gildas, crying bitter tears, and using bitter ink, in his Welsh monastery, tells us of the weakness and the follies of the British and their kings, of the cruelties of the barbarous folk. We see in his pages the smoke of burned churches, the blood of murdered Christians. Matthew of Westminster tells us that the churches that were burned had the happier fate.
Yes, the descendants of the good Joel are, occasionally, long-lived, seeing that I, Araim, who to-day trace these lines in the seventy-seventh year of my life, saw my grandfather Gildas die fifty-six years ago at the advanced age of ninety-six, after having inscribed in his early youth a few lines in our family archives. My grandfather Gildas buried his son Goridek, my father.
"Do you wish to know what it is?" "Of course," I replied in surprise. "Give me the scroll again, Durand," he said; then he read from the bottom: "I, l'Abbé Sorgue, forced to write the above by my executioners, have written it in my own blood; and with it I leave my curse. My curse on St. Gildas, on Marie Trevec, and on her descendants. I will come back to St. Gildas when my remains are disturbed.
And the grand abbot having touched it with his crosier, the wolf crouched at his feet, panting, trembling, and bloody. Gildas the Wise bent over it, looked at it attentively, then said, "Nothing happens contrary to God's will. Where is Dame Josserande?" "I am here," replied a mournful voice full of tears, "and I dread a great misfortune."
The thing came about in this wise. There was in lesser Brittany, in the bishopric of Vannes, a certain abbey of St. Gildas at Ruits, then mourning the death of its shepherd. To this abbey the elective choice of the brethren called me, with the approval of the prince of that land, and I easily secured permission to accept the post from my own abbot and brethren.
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