She came forward, holding out a handful of sugar, and spoke to the mare,
if you'll believe me, in my very own Breton.
"Good Lilith!" said she. "Ah, what a mess for me to groom! See what a
coat! Good Lilith!" Then, as Lilith munched the sugar--"Who are you,
little boy? I never saw you before. Explain yourself, kindly, little
boy."
"My name is Yann," said I; "Yann Riel. I am from Roscoff, and--O how
tired, madame!"
"He is Breton! He speaks the Breton!" She clapped her hands, drew me
down from my seat, and kissed me on both cheeks.
"Yann, you shall sleep now--this instant. Tell me only how you came--a
word or two--that I may repeat to the farmer."
So I did my best, and told her about the run, and the dragoons on the
beach, and how I came on Lilith's back.
"Wonderful, wonderful! But how came she to allow you?"
"That I know not, madame. But when I spoke to her she was quiet at
once."
"In the Breton--you spoke in the Breton? Yes, yes, that explains--_I_
taught her. Dear Lilith!" She patted the mare's neck, and broke off to
clap her hands again and interpret the tale to the farmer and his wife;
and the farmer growled a bit, and then they all began to laugh.
"He says you are a 'rumgo,' and you had better be put to bed. But the
packet on your back--your night-shirt, I suppose? You have managed it
all so complete, Yann!" And she laughed merrily.
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