IN THE ERGASTULA.
When, more than five hundred years ago, the Romans conquered and owned,
though they could not subjugate, Gaul they constructed their
_ergastulas_--slave pens--of solid, lasting material. There they locked
up their chained Gallic slaves at night. Such a cave was an adjunct also
to the old Roman camp on which now stood the burg of Neroweg. The bricks
and cement were still so closely joined that they jointly constituted a
body more solid than marble itself. Hardly could men, equipped with all
the necessary implements for boring, and working from dawn to dusk,
succeed in effecting an opening through the wall of this prison. The
opening of the vault was barred by enormous rods of iron. Without, a
strong body of Franks, armed with axes, were keeping ceaseless watch;
some were lying on the ground, others walked up and down. From time to
time these watchmen cast a wistful glance towards the burg, which lay
about five hundred paces from them. The principal building, however, was
hidden from their view by the gables of the barns and stables that
adjoined the seigniorial mansion from that side.
Why did these watchmen cast such wistful glances to the side of the
burg? Because, issuing through the open windows, the cries of the
wassailers, from time to time, also the rattle of drums and blare of
hunting horns, reached their ears. There was a feast in Neroweg's hall.
On that evening he was entertaining his royal guest Chram at his best.
An iron lamp, that swung under the vaulted entrance of the antique
_ergastula_, threw a dim light around the gate of the underground cell
and also partially lighted it within.
Steps were heard. A leude appeared followed by slaves bearing baskets
and bowls.
"Boys! Here's some beer for you, also wine, venison, bread and cheese.
Eat, drink and be merry. The son of the King is on a visit at the burg."
"Three cheers for Sigefrid, wine, beer and venison!"
"But keep a close watch on the prisoners--let not one of you step
aside--keep your eyes wide open."
"Oh, those dogs do not move any more down there than if they had fallen
asleep forever under the cold ground, where they will be to-morrow. You
need not fear, Sigefrid."
"Outside of the seigneur King, the bishop or Neroweg, whosoever should
approach the iron railing to speak with the prisoners--"
"Will instantly fall under our axes, Sigefrid--they are sharp and
heavy."
"At the slightest event, let the horns blow the alarm--we shall then
immediately rush to your aid."
"Those are all wise precautions, Sigefrid, but superfluous. The bridge
is raised; besides, the slime in the fosse is so deep that anyone trying
to cross it would sink over his head in it. Finally, there are no
strangers at the burg. Including the King's bodyguard we are more than
three hundred armed men--who would attempt to free the prisoners under
such circumstances? Moreover they are as incapable of walking as a
rabbit whose four paws have been cut off. So you see, Sigefrid, your
precautions, however wise, are superfluous."
"All the same, keep close watch until to-morrow. It is only one night of
watch to you."
"And we shall spend it merrily, drinking and singing."
"They seem to be merry in the banquet hall, Sigefrid. Tell us what is
going on."
"The sun of May does not more greedily pump up the dew than our topers
do the full kegs of wine and beer; mountains of victuals vanish in the
abysses of their stomachs--they no longer talk, they yell; a little
longer they will all be roaring! Chram's leudes at first affected
daintiness and choice manners; but at this hour they guzzle, swallow and
laugh like any of us. After all they are good and gay customers; some
little jealousy on our part at first irritated us against them; the
rivalry has been drowned in wine. Only shortly ago old Bertefred,
hiccoughing and weeping like a calf, embraced one of the young warriors
of the royal suite, and called him his darling little son."
"Ha! Ha! Ha! That was a droll scene!"
"Finally, in order to complete the scene, I just learn that a mountebank
with a dancing bear and a monkey has been let into the burg. Neroweg
proposed the amusement to King Chram, and the steward issued orders to
admit the man and his animals in the banquet hall. They were sent for
amid the shouts of glee of the whole convivial party. I want to go back
quick and share the sport."
"Happy Sigefrid! He will see the gambols of the bear and the grimaces of
the monkey."
"Now, boys, I promise you that after the King has enjoyed himself, I
shall request the count to have the mountebank sent to this part of the
house with his animals, so that you also may be amused by him."
"Sigefrid, you are a good companion!"
"But always keep your eyes upon the prisoners."
"Be easy! And now to the wine, beer and venison! While we wait for the
man, his bear and monkey, let us empty the pots in honor of the good
King Chram and of Neroweg! To the assault of the victuals!"
The iron lamp that swung under the vaulted entrance of the antique
_ergastula_ lighted up the group of Franks eating, laughing and drinking
at the entrance. The lamp also threw its ruddy light across the iron
railing and upon the Gallic prisoners who sat, gathered together, near
the entrance of the prison, the rear of which remained in deepest
darkness; nearest to the iron railing lay little Odille; the girl lay on
her back with her arms crossed over her girlish bosom like a corpse
about to be buried. Indeed the girl's pallor was that of a dying person.
Near her and holding the child's head in her lap sat the bishopess,
still handsome, although somewhat paler and reduced in flesh; she
contemplated the girl with the loving eyes of a mother. A few steps away
sat Ronan; his feet were wrapped in rags; his wrists were manacled;
unable either to hold himself on his feet or on his knees he leaned his
back against the underground wall. The Vagre looked at Odille with a
tenderness equal to that of the bishopess. Manacled like his brother,
whose torture he had shared, the hermit-laborer was seated near Ronan
and seemed deeply moved at the tender care that the bishopess bestowed
upon the young slave girl.
"Die, little Odille," said Ronan, "die, my child. It is better far that
you die of the wound which your brave hand inflicted upon yourself,
when, a month ago, you thought I was dead. It is better far that you die
now, than to be burned alive to-morrow."
"Poor little one, the strain of this day's experience has exhausted her
strength! Look, Ronan, her face, alas! grows paler and paler."
"Let us bless this pallor of death, beautiful bishopess; it announces
the approach of death--a death that will save the poor child the agony
of the burning pyre. Did not her wound already protect her against the
brutalities of the count and the torture of to-day? Die, die, little
Odille, we shall live again in yonder world. Were I free I would have
made you my wife for life in Vagrery, if you consented. I have loved you
dearly for your sweetness, your beauty, and the misfortune of the shame
that you were smitten with so young--an innocent girl even after your
dishonor! Die, little Odille! As sure as I and my brother Loysik will be
executed to-morrow I stand in less dread of the agony in store for me
than of the thought that you are yourself to burn alive! Oh, if my feet
were not in blisters I would drag myself to your side. Oh, if my hands
were not manacled I would smother you with a loving hand, as our
mothers, the Gallic women of yore, killed their children in order to
snatch them from slavery. Beautiful bishopess, could not you, whose arms
are free, gently strangle that poor child? The slender thread of life
that hardly holds her, would be easily torn!"
"I have thought of that, Ronan, but I lack the courage."
"But should she unfortunately live till to-morrow, her fate will be
yours. Keep in mind that you will be stripped naked by that band of
Franks, and whipped by them with switches!"
"Keep still, Ronan, shame mantles my cheeks! To me, a woman, that part
of the punishment--to be exposed naked before those men--is the worst!"
"Your husband, the bishop, knew that, just as he was aware that, if you
were tortured to-day, you would lose some of the strength necessary to
endure to-morrow's punishment to the end, on account of which he spared
you.--You will both thereupon be impaled. Before impalement, poor dear
victims, your nipples will be torn from you with burning tongs. Finally
you will both be thrown upon the pyre with whatever little life may be
still in you. As you see, the torture is finely graded, and will not
you, you who have the power, snatch the dear girl from such torment? Oh,
I see, you finally take the decision--your hands are creeping up to
Odille's neck. Courage, no weakness! Remember that our mothers
themselves put their beloved little ones to death. What! You
hesitate--your hands drop down again! You weep!"
"I have not the courage--I cannot."
"Craven soul!"
"No, Ronan, I am no craven. No--were she my daughter I would kill her."
"I understand. Odille is a stranger to you--you cannot love her enough
to decide to kill her. We must pardon the bishopess for her want of
kindness, not so, Loysik?"
At that moment the young slave moved, gave a slight sigh, half raised
her head, her eyes opened and looked around for Ronan. When they finally
fell upon him she said, after a moment, in a weak voice:
"Ronan, is the night over, and is it now day?"
"This is not the light of day my child; it is the light from the lamp
that burns outside our prison. Your strength seems exhausted, you were
in a torpor."
"I dreamed a sweet and sad dream. My mother rocked me on her knees
singing the chant of Hena, and then she said to me weeping: 'Odille, it
is you they are going to burn!' I then woke up and believed it was day.
Oh, Ronan, it is a long time till to-morrow! And the execution! The
execution! How it will be prolonged--unless the pain be so intense that
I die immediately."
"And will you not regret life?"
"Ronan, I tried to kill myself when I thought you were dead; you are
sentenced to death like ourselves; I have neither father nor mother;
what should I regret, all the less seeing that we are to live again in
yonder worlds near those whom we have loved? We shall soon meet again."
"By the faith of a Vagre, what is death, beautiful bishopess? Only a
change of vestments and lodging. As to the execution, two or three hours
of suffering is the extreme, and the end is certain. Do you know,
Loysik, what grieves me most at this hour? It is to quit this world,
leaving our dearly beloved Gaul forever in the clutches of the Franks
and bishops!"
"No, no, brother--centuries are centuries to man, they are hardly hours
to mankind in its eternal progress! The world in which we live seems
large to us--and yet, what is it, rolling and confounded among the
myriads of the starry worlds who at this hour of the night glisten in
our eyes from the vast expanse of the vault of heaven--mysterious worlds
in which we are to relive successively, in body and soul, but with
bodies new and evermore repurified! Brother, at the time of the conquest
of Caesar, our ancestors, then enslaved and loaded with chains centuries
ago in the very _ergastula_ where we now are, said, perhaps, as you just
now in despair: 'Our dearly beloved Gaul is forever enslaved to the
Roman conqueror'--and yet not two centuries and a half had passed
before, by dint of heroic insurrections against the Romans, Gaul again
won back, step by step, although paying dearly for it with the blood of
our fathers, the country's rights, liberties, and even final
independence during the glorious era of Victoria the Great!"
"You are right, Loysik; you are right."
"And do you forget the prophetic vision of that august woman--the vision
that our ancestor Schanvoch transmitted to us in the narrative of his
days, and that our father so often told us of?"
"In that vision, Victoria saw Gaul enslaved, exhausted, bleeding,
prostrate and crushed down under heavy burdens, dragging herself along
the ground under the whip of the Frankish kings and the bishops! And
then again she saw Gaul free, proud, radiant, trampling under foot the
collar of slavery, the crown of kings and the tiara of Popes! Gaul then
held in one hand a bundle of fruits and flowers, in the other a standard
surmounted by the Gallic cock--the red flag."
"What, then, do you fear? Think of the past! First bent down under the
Roman conquest, Gaul re-rises through the courage of her sons and
becomes again free and redoubtable! Let the past give you faith in the
future! Perchance that future is still far away. What is time to us--to
us, who at this supreme moment have but the last few hours of our life
to count! Oh, my brother, I have a profound faith, an invincible faith,
in the final rejuvenation and enfranchisement of Gaul!--centuries are
centuries to man; they are but instants in the eternal progress of
mankind!"
"Loysik, you reassure me, you confirm my confidence. Aye, I shall leave
this world with my eyes fixed upon the radiant vision of renascent Gaul!
Still one sorrow I carry with me--our uncertainty regarding the fate of
our father. What may have become of him?"
"If he still lives, Ronan, may he never know of our end! He loved us so
tenderly--his was a large heart. At a season of national insurrection
and at the head of a province risen in arms, he might have become a hero
like the Chief of the Hundred Valleys, who was his idol! At the head of
a band of men in revolt, our father could be nothing but a chief of
Bagauders or Vagres.[B] You know my sentiments with regard to those
terrible reprisals, which, however legitimate they may be, leave only
ruins and disaster behind them. But without approving his conduct, I
feel inclined to acquit him of blame, because his vengeance never smote
but the wicked."
[B] "I do not know by what diabolical influence they accomplished it,
but they seduced in this fashion an immense multitude of men, who set
themselves to pillaging and despoiling all whom they met on their way,
and distributed their spoils among those who had nothing."--Bishop
Gregory of Tours. Histoire des Franks, IV., 10.
"Brother," said Ronan, "they seem to be in high feather at the burg! Do
you hear the distant din of their merriment? Oh, by the bones of our
ancestor Sylvest, the young and brilliant Roman seigneurs, who, crowned
with flowers laughed with cruel laughter and careless of the future on
the gilded balcony of the circus, while their slaves, who were consigned
to the wild beasts, awaited death in the sombre vault of the
amphitheatre, just as we to-night await it in this underground
prison--they were also quite hilarious. Aye, those Roman seigneurs were
indeed hilarious; and yet from the depths of their dungeons the Gallic
slaves shook their chains in cadence and sang the prophetic words:
'Flow, flow, thou blood of the captive! Drop, drop, thou dew of gore!
Germinate, sprout up, thou avenging harvest! Hasten, thou mower, hasten!
It is ripe! Whet your scythe, whet it! Whet your scythe!'"