This is post #4 of my penance after I have been blacklisted by Hivewatchers for plagiarizing.
No need to upvote this post, as the payout has been declined.
But comments are welcome. I will continue to upvote all meaningful comments.

THE SWORD OF SAINT PETER

Source

The poor old man took a drink from the flask and stopped shivering.

" Thank you, my friend. Now carry me across the water."

"With pleasure, poor man. Get on my back and hold on tight. Jesus! You weigh no more than a feather."

"Patience. I will weigh more in the middle of the water."

"It's true. Jesus! You're crushing me."

"Patience. On the other side, I will weigh no more than a feather."

"It's true. Hey, poor man, here you go. Drink another drink from my flask, and may the Good Lord lead you."

— Young man, I am not poor. I am Saint Peter. Young man, you have done me a great service. I will pay you according to my power. Young man, I know who you are. I know what you think about night and day. You think your mother told you: “Go travel the world. Find the sword of Saint Peter. When you grow up big and strong, don’t forget what I endured for you." Young man, listen. Until daybreak, you will walk, praying to God, all along the river. Then you will be in front of a black and stinking hole, a hole a hundred fathoms deep. Come down, without fear. Help yourself with your hands and feet. But down below, you will not be at the end of your trials. For a long, long time, you will travel underground. In your bag, you will find, every morning, just enough bread not to starve. In your flask, you will find, every morning, just enough wine not to die of thirst. Be careful not to eat or drink anything else, and always go on your way. Finally, you will arrive under the mountain of Calvary, where Our Lord Jesus Christ was crucified. There is a large church there, where seven hundred candles and seven hundred lamps burn night and day. However, no one ever enters. On the high altar of the great church, you will take my sword, and you will return to your country, to kill the King of the Pagans. But the King of the Pagans has a son. I want this one not to die because he is your mother's brother."

"Saint Peter, you will be obeyed."

Saint Peter left. The king's son walked all along the river, praying to God, until daybreak. Then he arrived in front of a black and stinking hole, a hole a hundred fathoms deep, and descended, without fear, using his hands and feet. Below, boys and girls were seated at tables eating and drinking.

“My friend, my friend, come and frolic with us."

But the king's son remembered the defense of Saint Peter. With a great kick, he kicked the table to the floor and threw the bottles and plates at the heads of the ribotters.

“Off to sea, mackerels! Get the hell out of here, you whores."

All these dirty people left, and the king's son set off. For a long, long time, he traveled underground, without ever meeting anyone. In his bag, every morning, he found just enough bread not to starve. In his flask, he found every morning, just enough wine not to die of thirst. But one day he heard pitiful cries.

“Ah! ah! ah!"

It was a man dressed in rags, lying by the side of the road. He had red hair like a carrot, and stank more than a hundred carrion.

“Ah! ah! ah!"

"What is the matter with you, my poor friend?"

"Ah! ah! ah! I can no longer put one foot in front of the other. I'm starving and thirsty. Please, young man, get me out of here. Ah! ah! ah!"

Then the king's son thought: “We must have pity on the poor people."

“Here, my friend, eat this little piece of bread. Drink a drop from my flask. Come on, give me your arm. Let's walk. I'll get you out of here."

For a long, long time, the king's son and the man with the red hair traveled underground, without ever meeting anyone.

Source: L’Épée de saint Pierre, from the French book Contes populaires de la Gascogne, tome 1, published in 1886.

Part 1 - Part 2 - Part 3 - Part 4

Part 6

Hello, my name is Vincent Celier.

I am writing translations of folk tales that I found in public domain French books, so that people who do not understand French may enjoy them too.

The author of the book Contes populaires de la Gascogne, tome 1 was Jean-François Bladé. He was a judge, in Lectoure, the city in Gascony where he was born.

Apparently, he was not very busy, because he spent a lot of time gathering folk tales from storytellers. Most of these storytellers could not read or write. They had heard the tales from other storytellers, who had done the same thing.

The storytellers were usually speaking Occitan, or more precisely the Gascon dialect of the Occitan language. This was the language that the people who never went to school were speaking in Gascony, until the end of the XIX^th century.

For this particular tale, the version Jean-François Bladé collected and translated to French had been told by an old man named Cazaux, who died before the publication of the book. There are thirteen other tales in the book that had been told by Cazaux.

In ten days, on October 2^nd, I will drive to France, with my French car, a lack Nissan Qashqai. I will stop for the night in Nuremberg and I will arrive at our family house, near Saumur on the afternoon of October 3^rd.

I will bring, for my brothers and sisters, 60 bottles of white wine and 60 bottles of red wine, that I have put in 20 cardboard boxes of 6 bottles.