ON THE RHINE.
I had often asked myself why Sampso, who was a year older than Ellen,
and as beautiful and virtuous as my wife, had until then rejected
several offers of marriage. At times I suspected that she entertained
some secret love, other times I surmised she might belong to one of the
Christian societies that began to spread over Gaul and in which the
women took the vow of virginity, as did several of our female druids. I
also pondered the reason for Sampso's reticence when I asked her to be
more explicit concerning Victorin. Soon, however, I dropped all these
subjects and turned my mind upon the expedition that I had in charge.
I wended my way towards the advance posts of the camp and addressed
myself to an officer under whose eyes I placed a scroll with a few lines
written by Victorin. The officer immediately put four picked soldiers at
my disposal. They were chosen from among a number whose special
department was to manoeuvre the craft of the military flotilla that was
used in ascending or descending the Rhine in order, whenever occasion
required, to defend the fortified camp. Upon my recommendation the four
soldiers left their arms behind. I alone was armed. As we passed a clump
of oak trees I cut down a few branches to be placed at the prow of the
bark that was to transport us. We soon arrived at the river bank, where
we found several boats that were reserved for the service of the army,
tied to their stakes. While two of the soldiers fastened on the prow of
the boat the oak branches that I had furnished them with, the other two
examined the oars with expert eyes in order to assure themselves that
they were in fit condition for use. I took the rudder, and we left the
shore.
The four soldiers rowed in silence for a while. Presently the oldest of
them, a veteran with a grey moustache and white hair, said to me:
"There is nothing like a Gallic song to make time pass quickly and the
oars strike in rhythm. I should say that some old national refrain, sung
in chorus, renders the sculls lighter and the water more easy to cleave
through. Are we allowed to sing, friend Schanvoch?"
"You seem to know me, comrade?"
"Who in the army does not know the foster-brother of the Mother of the
Camps?"
"Being a simple horseman I thought my name was more obscure than it
seems to be."
"You have remained a simple horseman despite our Victoria's friendship
for you. That is why, Schanvoch, everybody knows and esteems you."
"You certainly make me feel happy by saying so. What is your name?"
"Douarnek."
"You must be a Breton!"
"From the neighborhood of Vannes."
"My family also comes from that neighborhood."
"I thought as much, your name being a Breton name. Well, friend
Schanvoch, may we sing a song? Our officer gave us orders to obey you
as we would himself. I know not whither you are taking us, but a song is
heard far away, especially when it is struck up in chorus by vigorous
and broad-chested lads. Perhaps we must not draw attention upon our
bark?"
"Just now you may sing--later not--we shall have to advance without
making any noise."
"Well, boys, what shall we sing?" said the veteran without either
himself or his companions intermitting the regular strokes of their
oars, and only slightly turning his head towards them, seeing that,
seated as he was on the first bench, he sat opposite to me. "Come, make
your choice!"
"The song of the mariners, will that suit you?" answered one of the
soldiers.
"That is rather long," replied Douarnek.
"The song of the Chief of the Hundred Valleys?"
"That is very beautiful," again replied Douarnek, "but it is a song of
slaves who await their deliverance; by the bones of our fathers, we are
now free in old Gaul!"
"Friend Douarnek," said I, "it was to the refrain of that slaves'
song--'Flow, flow, thou blood of the captive! Drop, drop, thou dew of
gore!' that our fathers, arms in hand, reconquered the freedom that we
enjoy to-day."
"That is true, Schanvoch, but that song is very long, and you warned us
that we were soon to become silent as fishes."
"Douarnek," one of the soldiers spoke up, "sing to us the song of Hena
the Virgin of the Isle of Sen. It always brings tears to my eyes. She is
my favorite saint, the beautiful and sweet Hena, who lived centuries and
centuries ago."
"Yes, yes," said the other soldiers, "sing the song of Hena, Douarnek!
That song predicts the victory of Gaul--and Gaul is to-day triumphant!"
Hearing these words I was greatly moved, I felt happy and, I confess it,
proud at seeing that the name of Hena, dead more than three hundred
years, had remained in Gaul as popular as it was at the time of Sylvest.
"Very well, the song of Hena it shall be!" replied the veteran. "I also
love the sweet and saintly girl, who offered her blood to Hesus for the
deliverance of Gaul. And you, Schanvoch, do you know the song?"
"Yes--quite well--I have heard it sung--"
"You will know it enough to repeat the refrain with us."
Saying this Douarnek struck up the song in a full and sonorous voice
that reached far over the waters of the Rhine:
"She was young, she was fair,
And holy was she.
To Hesus her blood gave
That Gaul might be free.
Hena her name!
Hena, the Maid of the Island of Sen!
"--Blessed be the gods, my sweet daughter,--
Said her father Joel,
The brenn of the tribe of Karnak.
--Blessed be the gods, my sweet daughter,
Since you are at home this night
To celebrate the day of your birth!--
"--Blessed be the gods, my sweet girl,--
Said Margarid, her mother.
--Blessed be your coming!
But why is your face so sad?--
"--My face is sad, my good mother;
My face is sad, my good father,
Because Hena your daughter
Comes to bid you Adieu,
Till we meet again.--
"--And where are you going, my sweet daughter?
Will your journey, then, be long?
Whither thus are you going?--
"--I go to those worlds
So mysterious, above,
That no one yet knows,
But that all will yet know.
Where living ne'er traveled,
Where all will yet travel,
To live there again
With those we have loved.--"
And myself and the three other oarsmen replied in chorus:
"She was young, she was fair,
And holy was she.
To Hesus her blood gave,
That Gaul might be free.
Hena her name!
Hena, the Maid of the Island of Sen!"
Douarnek then proceeded with the song:
"Hearing Hena speak these words,
Sadly gazed upon her her father
And her mother, aye, all the family,
Even the little children,
For Hena loved them very dearly.
"--But why, dear daughter,
Why now quit this world,
And travel away beyond
Without the Angel of Death having called you?--
"--Good father, good mother,
Hesus is angry.
The stranger now threatens our Gaul so beloved.
The innocent blood of a virgin
Offered by her to the gods
May their anger well soften.
Adieu, then, till we meet again,
Good father, good mother,
Adieu till we meet again,
All, my dear ones and friends.
These collars preserve, and these rings
As mementoes of me.
Let me kiss for the last time your blonde heads,
Dear little ones. Good bye till we meet.
Remember your Hena, she waits for you yonder,
In the worlds yet unknown.--"
And the other oarsmen and I replied in chorus to the rythmical sound of
the oars:
"She was young, she was fair,
And holy was she.
To Hesus her blood gave
That Gaul might be free.
Hena her name.
Hena, the Maid of the Island of Sen!"
Douarnek proceeded:
"Bright is the moon, high is the pyre
Which rises near the sacred stones of Karnak;
Vast is the gathering of the tribes
Which presses 'round the funeral pile.
"Behold her, it is she, it is Hena!
She mounts the pyre, her golden harp in hand,
And singeth thus:
"--Take my blood, O Hesus,
And deliver my land from the stranger.
Take my blood, O Hesus,
Pity for Gaul! Victory to our arms!--
And it flowed, the blood of Hena.
"O, holy Virgin, in vain 'twill not have been,
The shedding of your innocent and generous blood.
Bowed beneath the yoke, Gaul will some day rise erect,
Free and proud, and crying, like thee,
--Victory and Freedom!"
And Douarnek, along with the three other soldiers, repeated in a low
voice, vibrating with pious admiration, this last refrain:
"So it was that she offered her blood to Hesus,
To Hesus for the deliverance of Gaul!
She was young, she was fair,
And holy was she,
Hena her name!
Hena, the Maid of the Island of Sen!"
I alone did not join in the last refrain of the song. I was too deeply
moved!
Noticing my emotion and my silence, Douarnek said to me surprised:
"What, Schanvoch, have you lost your voice? You remain silent at the
close of so glorious a song?"
"Your speech is sooth, Douarnek; it is just because that song is
particularly glorious to me--that you see me so deeply moved."
"That song is particularly glorious to you? I do not understand you."
"Hena was the daughter of one of my ancestors."
"What say you!"
"Hena was the daughter of Joel, the brenn of the tribe of Karnak, who
died, together with his wife and almost all his family, at the great
battle of Vannes--a battle that was fought on land and water nearly
three centuries ago. From father to son, I descend from Joel."
"Do you know, Schanvoch," replied Douarnek, "that even kings would be
proud of such an ancestry?"
"The blood shed for our country and for liberty by all of us Gauls is
our national patent of nobility," I said to him. "It is for that reason
that our old songs are so popular among us."
"When one considers," put in one of the younger soldiers, "that it is
now more than three hundred years since Hena, the saintly maid,
surrendered her own life for the deliverance of the country, and that
her name still reaches us!"
"Although it took the young virgin's voice more than two centuries to
rise to the ears of Hesus," replied Douarnek, "her voice did finally
reach him, seeing that to-day we can say--Victory to our arms! Victory
and freedom!"
We had now arrived at about the middle of the river, where the stream is
very rapid.
Raising his oar, Douarnek asked me:
"Shall we enter the strong current? That would be a waste of strength,
unless we are either to ascend or descend the river a distance equal to
that that now separates us from the shore."
"We are to cross the Rhine in its full breadth, friend Douarnek."
"Cross it!" cried the veteran with amazement. "Cross the Rhine! And what
for?"
"To land on the opposite shore."
"Do you know what that means, Schanvoch? Is not the army of those
Frankish bandits, if one can honor those savage hordes with the name of
army, encamped on the opposite shore?"
"It is to those very barbarians that I am bound."
For a few moments all the four oars rested motionless in their oarlocks.
The soldiers looked at one another speechless, as if they could not
believe what they heard me say.
Douarnek was the first to break the silence. With a soldier's unconcern
he said to me:
"Is it, then, a sacrifice that we are to offer to Hesus by delivering
our hides to those hide-tanners? If such be the orders, forward! Bend to
your oars, my lads!"
"Have you forgotten, Douarnek, that we have a truce of eight days with
the Franks?"
"There is no such thing as a truce to those brigands."
"As you will notice, I have made the signal of peace by ornamenting the
prow of our bark with green boughs. I shall proceed alone into the
enemy's camp, with an oak branch in my hand."
"And they will slay you despite all your oak branches, as they have
slain other envoys during previous truces."
"That may happen, Douarnek; but when the chief commands, the soldier
obeys. Victoria and her son have ordered me to proceed to the Frankish
camp. So thither I go!"
"It surely was not out of fear that I spoke, Schanvoch, when I said that
those savages would not leave our heads on our shoulders, nor our skins
on our bodies. I only spoke from the old habit of sincerity. Well, then,
my lads, fall to with a will! Bend to your oars! We have the order from
our mother--the Mother of the Camps--and we obey. Forward! even if we
are to be flayed alive by the barbarians, a cruel sport that they often
indulge in at the expense of their prisoners."
"And it is also said," put in the young soldier with a less unperturbed
voice than Douarnek's, "it is also said that the priestesses of the
nether world who follow the Frankish hordes drop their prisoners into
large brass caldrons, and boil them alive with certain magic herbs."
"Ha! Ha!" replied Douarnek merrily, "the one of us who may be boiled in
that way will at least enjoy the advantage of being the first to taste
his own soup--that's some consolation. Forward! Ply your oars! We are
obeying orders from the Mother of the Camps."
"Oh! We would row straight into an abyss, if Victoria so ordered!"
"She has been well named, the Mother of the Camps and of the soldiers.
It is a treat to see her visiting the wounded after each battle."
"And addressing them with her kind words, that almost make the whole
ones regret that they have not been wounded, too."
"And then she is so beautiful. Oh, so beautiful!"
"Oh! When she rides through the camp, mounted on her white steed, clad
in her long black robe, her bold face looking out from under her casque,
and yet her eyes shining with so much mildness, and her smile so
motherly! It is like a vision!"
"It is said for certain that our Victoria knows the future as well as
she knows the present."
"She must have some charm about her. Who would believe, seeing her, that
she is the mother of a son of twenty-two?"
"Oh! If the son had only fulfilled the promise that his younger years
gave!"
"Victorin will always be loved as he has been."
"Yes, but it is a great pity!" remarked Douarnek shaking his head sadly,
after the other soldiers had thus given vent to their thoughts and
feelings. "Yes, it is a great pity! Oh! Victorin is no longer the child
of the camps that we, old soldiers with grey moustaches, knew as a baby,
rode on our knees, and, down to only recently, looked upon with pride
and friendship!"
The words of these soldiers struck me with deeper apprehension than
Sampso's words did a few hours before. Not only did I often have to
defend Victorin with the severe Sampso, but I had latterly noticed in
the army a silent feeling of resentment towards my foster-sister's son,
who until then, was the idol of the soldiers.
"What have you to reproach Victorin with?" I asked Douarnek and his
companions. "Is he not brave among the bravest? Have you not watched his
conduct in war?"
"Oh! If a battle is on, he fights bravely, as bravely as yourself,
Schanvoch, when you are at his side, on your large bay horse, and more
intent upon defending the son of your foster-sister than upon defending
yourself. '_Your scars would declare it, if they could speak through the
mouths of your wounds_,' as our old proverb says!"
"I fight as a soldier; Victorin fights as a captain. And has not that
young captain of only twenty-two years already won five great battles
against the Germans and the Franks?"
"His mother, well named Victoria, must have contributed with her counsel
towards his victories. He confers with her upon his plans of campaign.
But, anyhow, it is true, Victorin is a brave soldier and good captain."
"And is not his purse open to all, so long as there is anything in it?
Do you know of any invalid who ever vainly applied to him?"
"Victorin is generous--that also is true."
"Is he not the friend and comrade of the soldiers? Is he ever haughty?"
"No, he is a good comrade, and always cheerful. Besides, what should he
be proud about? Are not his father, his glorious mother and himself from
the Gallic plebs, like the rest of us?"
"Do you not know, Douarnek, that often it happens that the proudest
people are the very ones who have risen from the lowest ranks?"
"Victorin is not proud!"
"Does he not, during war, sleep unsheltered with his head upon the
saddle of his horse, like the rest of us horsemen?"
"Brought up by so virile a mother as his, he was bound to grow up a
rough soldier, as he is."
"Are you not aware that in council he displays a maturity of judgment
that many men of our age do not possess? In short, is it not his
bravery, his kindness, his good judgment, his rare military qualities as
a soldier and captain that caused him to be acclaimed general by the
army, and one of the two Chiefs of Gaul?"
"Yes, but in electing him, all of us knew that his mother Victoria would
always be near him, guiding him, instructing him, schooling him in the
art of governing men, without neglecting, worthy matron that she is, to
sew her linen near the cradle of her grandson, as is her thrifty habit."
"No one knows better than I how precious the advices of Victoria to her
son are to our country. But what is it, then, that has changed? Is she
not always there, watching over Victorin and Gaul that she loves with
equal and paternal devotion? Come, now, Douarnek, answer me with a
soldier's frankness. Whence comes the hostility that, I fear, is ever
spreading and deepening against Victorin, our young and brave general?"
"Listen, Schanvoch. I am, like yourself, a seasoned soldier. Your
moustache, although younger than mine, begins to show grey streaks. Do
you want to know the truth? Here it is: We are all aware that the life
of the camp does not make people chaste and reserved like young girls
who are brought up by our venerated female druids. We also know,
because we have emptied many a cup, that our Gallic wines throw us into
a merry and riotous humor. We know, furthermore, that when he is in a
garrison, the young soldier who proudly carries a cockade on his casque
and caresses his brown or blonde moustache, does not long preserve the
friendship of fathers who have handsome daughters, or of husbands who
have handsome wives. But, for all that, you will have to admit,
Schanvoch, that a soldier who is habitually intoxicated like a brute,
and takes cowardly advantage of women, would deserve to be treated to a
hundred or more stripes laid on well upon his back, and to be
ignominiously driven from camp. Is not that so?"
"That is all very true, but what connection has it with Victorin?"
"Listen, friend Schanvoch, and then answer me. If an obscure soldier
deserves such treatment for his shameful conduct, what should be done to
an army chief who disgraces himself in such fashion?"
"Do you venture to say that Victorin has offered violence to women and
that he is daily drunk?" I cried indignantly. "I say that you lie, or
those who carried such tales to you lied. So, these are the unworthy
rumors that circulate in the camp against Victorin! And can you be
credulous enough to attach faith to them?"
"Soldiers are not quite so credulous, friend Schanvoch, but they are
aware of the old Gallic proverb--'The lost sheep are charged to the
shepherd.' Now, for instance, you know Captain Marion, the old
blacksmith?"
"Yes, I know the brave fellow to be one of the best officers in the
army."
"The famous Captain Marion, who can carry an ox on his shoulders," put
in one of the soldiers, "and who can knock down the same ox with a blow
of his fist--his arm is as heavy as the iron mace of a butcher."
"And Captain Marion," added another oarsman, "is a good comrade, for all
that, despite his strength and military renown. He took a simple
soldier, a former fellow blacksmith, for his 'friend in war,' or, as
they used to say in olden times, took the 'pledge of brotherhood' with
him."
"I am aware of the bravery, modesty, good judgment and austerity of
Captain Marion," I answered him, "but why do you now bring in his name?"
"Have a little patience, friend Schanvoch, I shall satisfy you in a
minute. Did you see the two Bohemian girls enter Mayence a few days ago
in a wagon drawn by mules covered with tinkling bells and led by a Negro
lad?"
"I did not see the women, but have heard them mentioned. But I must
insist upon it, what has all this got to do with Victorin?"
"I have reminded you of the proverb--'The lost sheep are charged to the
shepherd.' It would be idle to attribute habits of drunkenness and
incontinence to Captain Marion, would it not? Despite all his
simpleness, the soldier would not believe a word of such slanders; not
so? While, on the other hand, the soldier would be ready to believe any
story of debauchery about the said Bohemian strollers, and he would
trust the narrator of the tale, do you understand?"
"I understand you, Douarnek, and I shall be frank in turn. Yes, Victorin
loves wine and indulges in it with some of his companions in arms. Yes,
having been left a widower at the age of twenty, only a few months
after his marriage, Victorin has occasionally yielded to the headlong
impulses of youth. Often did his mother, as well as myself, regret that
he was not endowed with greater austerity in morals, a virtue, however,
that is extremely rare at his age. But, by the anger of the gods! I, who
have never been from Victorin's side since his earliest childhood, deny
that drunkenness is habitual with him; above all I deny that he ever was
base enough to do violence to a woman!"
"Schanvoch, you defend the son of your foster-sister out of the goodness
of your heart, although you know him to be guilty--unless you really are
ignorant of what you deny--"
"What am I ignorant of?"
"An adventure that has raised a great scandal, and that everybody in
camp knows."
"What adventure?"
"A short time ago Victorin and several officers of the army went to a
tavern on one of the isles near the border of the Rhine to drink and
make merry. In the evening, being by that time drunk as usual, Victorin
violated the tavern-keeper's wife, who, in her despair, threw herself
into the river and was drowned."
"The soldier who misdemeaned himself in that manner," remarked one of
the oarsmen, "would speedily have his head cut off by a strict chief."
"And he would have deserved the punishment," added another oarsman. "As
much as the next man, I would find pleasure in bantering with the
tavern-keeper's wife. But to offer her violence, that is an act of
savagery worthy only of those Frankish butchers, whose priestesses,
veritable devil's cooks, boil their prisoners alive in their caldrons."
I was so stupefied by the accusation made against Victorin that I
remained silent for a moment. But my voice soon came to me and I cried:
"Calumny! A calumny as infamous as the act would have been. Who is it
dares accuse Victoria's son of such a crime?"
"A well informed man," Douarnek answered me.
"His name! Give me the liar's name!"
"His name is Morix. He was the secretary of one of Victoria's relatives.
He came to the camp about a month ago to confer upon grave matters."
"The relative is Tetrik, the Governor of Gascony," I said with increased
stupefaction. "The man is the incarnation of kindness and loyalty; he is
one of Victoria's oldest and most faithful friends."
"All of which renders the man's testimony all the more reliable."
"What! He, Tetrik! Did Tetrik confirm what you have just said?"
"He communicated it to his secretary, and confirmed the occurrence,
while deploring the shocking excesses of Victorin's dissoluteness."
"Calumny! Tetrik has only words of kindness and esteem for Victoria's
son."
"Schanvoch, I have served in the army for the last twenty-five years.
Ask my officers whether Douarnek is a liar."
"I believe you to be sincere; only you have been shamefully imposed
upon."
"Morix, the secretary of Tetrik, narrated the occurrence not to me only
but to other soldiers in the camp for whose wine he was paying. We all
placed confidence in his words, because more than once did I myself and
several others of my companions see Victorin and his friends heated with
wine and indulging in crazy feats of arms."
"Does not the ardor of courage heat up young heads as much as wine?"
"Listen, Schanvoch, I have seen--with my own eyes--Victorin drive his
steed into the Rhine saying that he would cross the river on horseback;
and he would certainly have been drowned had not another soldier and I
rushed into a boat and fished him half drunk out of the water, while the
current carried his horse away. And do you know what Victorin then said
to us? 'You should have let me drink; the white wine of Beziers runs in
this stream.' What I am telling you now is no calumny, Schanvoch, I saw
it with my own eyes, heard it with my own ears."
Despite my attachment to Victorin I could not but reply to the soldier's
testimony, saying: "I knew him to be incapable of an act of cowardice
and infamy; but I also knew him to be capable of certain acts of
extravagance and hotheadedness."
"As to myself," replied another soldier, "more than once, as I mounted
guard near Victorin's house which is separated from Victoria's by a
little plot of flowers, have I seen veiled women leave his place at
early dawn. They were of all colors and sizes, blondes and brunettes,
tall and short, some robust and stout, others slender and thin. At
least, that was the impression that the women left upon me, unless the
gloaming deceived my sight, and it was always the same woman."
"I notice that you are too sincere to make any answer to that, friend
Schanvoch," Douarnek said to me; indeed, I could raise no objection
against the latter accusation. "You must, therefore, not feel surprised
at our trust in the words of Tetrik's secretary. You must admit that the
man who in a drunken fit takes the Rhine for a stream of Bezier's wine,
and from whose house a procession of women is seen to issue in the
morning, is quite capable, in a fit of inebriety, of doing violence to a
tavern-keeper's wife."
"No!" I cried. "A man may be afflicted with the faults of his years in
an aggravated degree, without therefore being an infamous fellow, a
criminal!"
"See here, Schanvoch, you are the personal friend of our mother
Victoria. You love Victorin as if he were your own son. Say to him--'The
soldiers, even the grossest and most dissolute among them, do not like
to see their own vices reproduced in the chief whom they have chosen. By
your conduct, the army's affection is daily withdrawn more and more from
you and is centering wholly upon Victoria.'"
"Yes," I answered thoughtfully, "and the process started since Tetrik,
the Governor of Gascony, the relative and friend of Victoria, made his
last visit to our camp. Until then our young chief was generally
beloved, despite his little foibles."
"That is true. He is so good, so brave, so kind to all! He sat his horse
so well! He had so bold a military bearing! We loved the young captain
as an own child! We knew him as a babe, and rode him on our knees when
still a little fellow, during the watches in the camp! Later we shut our
eyes to his foibles, because parents are ever indulgent! But there can
be no room for indulgence towards baseness!"
"And of this baseness," I replied, now more and more forcibly struck by
the circumstance, which, recalling certain incidents to my mind,
awakened a vague suspicion in me, "and of these acts of baseness there
is no evidence other than the word of Tetrik's secretary?"
"The secretary repeated to us his own master's words."
During this conversation, to which I lent increasing attention, our
bark, ever moving forward under the vigorous strokes of the four
oarsmen, had traversed the Rhine and reached the opposite shore. The
soldier's backs were turned to the bank on which we were about to land.
I was so wholly absorbed in what I had just learned regarding the army's
increasing disaffection towards Victorin, that I never once thought of
casting my eyes upon the shore to which we were drawing near. Suddenly a
sharp whizz struck our ears. I cried out: "Throw yourselves down flat
upon your benches!"
It was too late. A volley of long arrows flew over our boat. One of the
oarsmen was instantly killed, while Douarnek, whose back was still
turned to the shore received one of the arrows in the back.
"This is the way the Franks receive parliamentarians during a truce,"
remarked the veteran without dropping his oar, and even without turning
around. "This is the first time I have been hit in the back. An arrow in
the back does not become a soldier. Pull it out quick, comrade," he
added, addressing the oarsman who sat behind him.
But despite his intrepidity, Douarnek managed his oar with less vigor.
Although the wound that he received was not serious, his face betrayed
the pain that he felt; the blood flowed copiously.
"I told you so, Schanvoch," he proceeded to say. "I told you that your
foliage of peace would prove a poor rampart against the treachery of the
Frankish barbarians. Fall to, my lads! We must now row all the harder,
seeing we are only three left. Our comrade yonder, who is bumping his
nose against his bench, with his limbs stiffened, can no longer count as
an oarsman!"
Douarnek had not finished his sentence before I dashed forward to the
prow of the bark, and passing over the corpse of the soldier who lay
dead across his bench seized one of the oak branches and waved it over
my head as a signal of peace.
A second volley of arrows, that came flying from behind an embankment of
the river, was the only answer to my appeal. One of the missiles grazed
my arm, another broke off its point against my iron casque; but none of
the soldiers was hit. We were then only a short distance from the shore.
I threw myself into the water, swam a little distance, and as soon as my
feet struck ground called out to Douarnek:
"Pull the bark safely beyond the reach of the arrows and drop anchor,
then wait for me. If I am not back after sunset, return to camp and
inform Victoria that I have either been made prisoner or killed by the
Franks. She will take my wife Ellen and my son Alguen under her
protection."
"I do not at all like the idea of leaving you alone in the hands of
those barbarians, friend Schanvoch," answered Douarnek; "but to stay
where we can be killed would be to deprive you of all possible means of
return to our camp, should you be lucky enough to escape with your life.
Courage, Schanvoch! We shall await the evening!"
And the bark pulled away, while I clambered up the embankment.