white sheet, and, moreover, to bring a gold plate on which
his enemies might expose his head after his death.

"And, little page," he added, "take a lock of my hair and place it on
the door of Coadelan, so that all men as they go to Mass may say, 'God
have mercy on the soul of Fontenelle.'"

The page did as he was bidden, but as for the plate of gold it was
useless, for Fontenelle's head was thrown on the pavement to serve as
a ball for the children of the gutter.

All Paris was surprised when one day a lady from a distant country
arrived and made great stir in its narrow streets. Every one asked his
neighbour who this dame might be. It was the heiress of Coadelan,
dressed in a flowing robe of green. "Alas!" said the pitiful
burgesses, "if she knew what we know she would be dressed in black."
Shortly she stood before the King. "Sire," said she, "give me back my
husband, I beg of you."

"Alas! madam," replied the King, with feigned sorrow, "what you ask is
impossible, for but three days ago he was broken on the wheel."

"Whoso goes to Coadelan to-day will turn away from it with grief, for
the ashes are black upon the hearth and the nettles crowd around the
doorway--and still," the ballad ends naively, "still the wicked world
goes round and the poor folk weep with anguish, and say, 'Alas that
she is dead, the mother of the poor.'"

_The Return from England_

There is a good deal of evidence to show that a considerable body of
Bretons accompanied the invading army of William the Conqueror when he
set forth with the idea of gaining the English crown. They were
attached to his second battle corps, and many of them received land in
England. A ballad which, says Villemarque, bears every sign of
antiquity deals with the fortunes of a young Breton, Silvestik, who
followed in the train of the Conqueror. The piece is put into the
mouth of the mother of Silvestik, who mourns her son's absence, and
its tone is a tender and touching one.

"One night as I lay on my bed," says the anxious mother, "I could not
sleep. I heard the girls at Kerlaz singing the song of my son. O God,
Silvestik, where are you now? Perhaps you are more than three hundred
leagues from here, cast on the great sea, and the fishes feed upon
your fair body. Perhaps you may be married now to some Saxon damsel.
You were to have been wed to a lovely daughter of this land, Mannaik
de Pouldergat, and you might have been among us surrounded by
beautiful chil