y of Bertrand over her nine other children fulfilled the
mother's dream.

At the tournament which was held at Rennes in 1338 to celebrate the
marriage of Charles of Blois with Joan of Penthievre, young Bertrand,
at that time only some eighteen years old, unhorsed the most famous
competitors. During the war between Blois and Montfort he gathered
round him a band of adventurers and fought on the side of Charles V,
doing much despite to the forces of Montfort and his ally of England.

Du Guesclin's name lives in Breton legend as Gwezklen, perhaps the
original form, and approximating to that on his tomb at Saint-Denis,
where he lies at the feet of Charles V of France. In this inscription
it is spelt "Missire Bertram du Gueaquien," perhaps a French rendering
of the Breton pronunciation. Not a few legendary ballads which recount
the exploits of this manly and romantic figure remain in the Breton
language, and I have made a free translation of the following, as it
is perhaps the most interesting of the number:

THE WARD OF DU GUESCLIN

Trogoff's strong tower in English hands
Has been this many a year,
Rising above its subject-lands
And held in hate and fear.
That rosy gleam upon the sward
Is not the sun's last kiss;
It is the blood of an English lord
Who ruled the land amiss.

"O sweetest daughter of my heart,
My little Marguerite,
Come, carry me the midday milk
To those who bind the wheat."
"O gentle mother, spare me this!
The castle I must pass
Where wicked Roger takes a kiss
From every country lass."

"Oh! fie, my daughter, fie on thee!
The Seigneur would not glance
On such a chit of low degree
When all the dames in France
Are for his choosing." "Mother mine,
I bow unto your word.
Mine eyes will ne'er behold you more.
God keep you in His guard."

Young Roger stood upon the tower
Of Trogoff's grey chateau;
Beneath his bent brows did he lower
Upon the scene below.
"Come hither quickly, little page,
Come hither to my knee.
Canst spy a maid of tender age?
Ha! she must pay my fee."

Fair Marguerite trips swiftly by
Beneath the castle shade,
When villain Roger, drawing nigh,
Steals softly on the maid.
He seizes on the milking-pail
She bears upon her head;
The snow-white flood she must bewail,
For all the milk is shed.

"Ah, cry not, pretty sister mine,
There's plenty and to spare
Of milk and eke of good red wine