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As for Thaël himself, he had been careful not to profit by his secret, for Gildas the Wise had once said to him, "Thaël, Thaël, God does not wish you to change the work of His hands. Lead is lead, and gold is gold. There is enough gold, and not too much lead. Leave God's works alone; if not, Satan will be your master."
As I spoke we came in sight of the farther edge of the wheat field and the dark, wet mass of cliffs beyond. "Durand is down there you can see him; he stands just behind the mayor of St. Gildas." "I see," said I; and we struck straight down, following a sun-baked cattle path across the heather. When we reached the edge of the wheat field, Le Bihan, the mayor of St.
And before he could be slain by any other, Arthur cut off his head. Then they sounded the death horn for slaying, and they all gathered round. Then came Kadyrieith to Arthur, and spoke to him. "Lord," said he, "behold, yonder is Gwenhwyvar, and none with her save only one maiden." "Command Gildas the son of Caw, and all the scholars of the Court," said Arthur, "to attend Gwenhwyvar to the palace."
At last I turned my back to the pit and strode out across the gorse-covered moorland toward my home. As I reached the road that winds from St. Gildas to St. Julien I gave one hasty glance at the pit over my shoulder. The sun shone hot on the sod about the excavation. There was something white and bare and round on the turf at the edge of the pit.
There are no other authorities. There is no other evidence save St. Gildas, a contemporary and two hundred years after him, three hundred after the first event Bede. A mass of legend and worse nonsense called the Historia Brittonum exists indeed for those who consult it but it has no relation to historical science nor any claim to rank as evidence.
The girl is called Roselyk, she is eighteen; the elder of the two boys, Kervan, is three years his sister's senior; the younger, my pet, Karadeucq, is seventeen. When you read these lines, as you will some day, my son Jocelyn, you will surely ask: "What can have been the reason that my great-grandfather Gildas made no other entry in our chronicles than the death of his father Amael?
When an opportunity of attacking the enemy with advantage occurs, they respect not the leagues of peace and friendship, preferring base lucre to the solemn obligations of oaths and good faith; to which circumstance Gildas alludes in his book concerning the overthrow of the Britons, actuated by the love of truth, and according to the rules of history, not suppressing the vices of his countrymen.
To understand properly the cult of nature, and, if I may say so, of landscape among the Celts, see Gildas and Nennius, pp. 131, 136, 137, etc. Elaine, the heroine of Lancelot, the ideal of Breton perfection, passes her life with her companions in a garden, in the midst of flowers which she tends.
"Aristide Le Bihan," I said angrily, "and you, Max Fortin, I've got enough of this nonsense! Some foolish lout from Bannalec has been in St. Gildas playing tricks to frighten old fools like you. If you have nothing better to talk about than nursery legends I'll wait until you come to your senses. Good-morning." And I walked out, more disturbed than I cared to acknowledge to myself.
Augustine landed only fifty years at the most after Gildas wrote his Liber Querulus, whereas the snapping of the links between the Continent and southeastern Britain had taken place at least a hundred years before. Well, it so happens that this book is, as I have called it, almost valueless for history.
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