CHAPTER V.

LOYSIK AND BRUNHILD.

Astonished at the oddity of the appearance and conduct of the old monk,

Brunhild and Warnachaire now followed him with their eyes, now looked at

each other in silence during the short instants that Loysik recognized

and contemplated the image of Victoria. More and more convinced that the

monk was out of his mind, the Queen lost all patience, stamped with her

foot on the floor and cried:

"Duke, call in my pages; let them drive out of this room with their

switches this crazy man who pretends to be the abbot of the monastery of

Charolles, and who kneels before my antique medals."

Brunhild was still issuing these orders when one of the pages entered by

the door that connected with the large hall, and bending a knee said to

her:

"Glorious Queen, a messenger has just arrived from the army; he brings

pressing despatches for seigneur Warnachaire."

"That is of greater importance, duke. Receive the messenger and return

quickly to inform me of the tidings that he brings;" and then,

addressing the page and pointing to Loysik, who, with head erect and

firm steps was now advancing toward her, she proceeded: "Fetch in some

of your assistants and drive out that dotard with your switches; the

loss of his senses saves him from a more severe punishment." Saying

this, the Queen rose from her seat, and stepping towards her bedchamber,

once more urged the mayor of the palace: "Warnachaire, return as soon as

possible and let me know what tidings the messenger bears. You will read

me the despatches."

"I shall go, madam, and receive him instantly. But what of this crazy

man? What is to be done with him?"

"Leave that to my pages!"

The mayor of the palace withdrew. Through the door, left open by him,

and without stepping out of the apartment, the page called out to

several of his companions who stood in waiting in the contiguous hall.

Loysik, on his part, seeing that, without taking any more notice of him

than of an insane man, the Queen was returning to her bedchamber, ran

towards Brunhild, and holding before her a parchment scroll that he drew

from his robe, said to her in a firm and collected voice:

"I am not crazy. This charter signed by the late King Clotaire will

prove to you that I am the superior of the monastery of Charolles, where

your chamberlain and his soldiers are, at this hour, retained prisoners

by my orders."

"Loysik!" exclaimed one of the young pages who entered the apartment in

response to the call of their companion. "Brother Loysik here?"

"What! This monk!" cried Brunhild stupefied. "Is he Loysik, the abbot of

the monastery of Charolles?"

"Yes, glorious Queen. He is the venerable abbot."

"How come you to know him?"

"He was pointed out to me at the last slave market. The worthy abbot was

buying slaves to set them free. I saw him again this morning crossing

one of the courtyards of the palace in the company of Samuel and two

young girls."

For a moment Brunhild remained thoughtful, and then ordering the other

pages out of the chamber with a wafture of her hand she addressed the

one who had first come in.

"Go to Pog and tell him to get himself and his assistants ready in the

cave. Let him light his fires and wait for further orders."

The page grew pale and bowed, but before leaving the chamber he cast a

look of pity upon the old man. Left alone with Loysik, the Queen paced

the room for a minute in silence and with agitated steps, and then

turning abruptly upon the hermit laborer said to him in a short, sharp

voice:

"So you are Loysik?"

"I am Loysik, the abbot and superior of the monastery of Charolles."

"How did you penetrate into this room?"

"This morning I met near the castle a slave merchant named Samuel; I had

recently bought several slaves from him; he informed me that he was

coming here; knowing that it was difficult to obtain access to the

palace, I asked Samuel to allow me to accompany him; at first he

hesitated; two gold pieces put an end to his hesitation."

"And as the gateman had received orders to admit Samuel and his slaves,

you passed along with his merchandise! And did you remain in the room

below while the Jew was showing me the two slave girls?"

Loysik nodded his head in the affirmative.

"And after Samuel left the palace?"

"The Jew having informed me that this room was reached from below by the

spiral staircase, I came up a short time ago and concealed myself behind

the curtain; I was a witness of your conversation with one of your

women. I heard everything."

Brunhild looked at the monk with a questioning and threatening mien:

"And so you overheard everything that was said between us?"

"Yes; I listened and heard everything."

"Old man--do you know who Pog and his assistants are?"

"The executioner and his men."

"How old are you?"

"The age of a man about to die."

"You expect death?"

Loysik shrugged his shoulders without answering.

"You are right," proceeded Brunhild with a satanic smile. "To bring

such tidings as you did was to run into the jaws of death."

"I came here of my own free will; your chamberlain and his men remain

prisoners at the monastery. No harm will be done them."

"You are mistaken. A terrible punishment awaits them! Infamy, cowardice,

shame and treachery! An officer, Brunhild's men-at-arms made prisoners

by a handful of monks! Pog and his men will have work to do."

"Your men-at-arms were not cowardly; even had they been more numerous,

they could not have resisted the men of the monastery and the colonists

of the Valley of Charolles."

"Why, they must be redoubtable men!"

"Not that. But they are people who are determined to die free, to bury

themselves under the ruins of their homes if you ignore the rights

guaranteed to them by the charter of the late King Clotaire."

"How dare you invoke such a charter in my presence! A charter of him who

was Fredegonde's father-in-law! A charter of the grandfather of Clotaire

II, the son of Fredegonde and no less a mortal enemy of mine than his

mother herself! You dare mention to me a charter signed by the

grandfather of a man whom I shall pursue into his grave! Insensate old

man! I would burn down the tree that lent its shade to Fredegonde's son!

I would have the spring poisoned that quenched that man's thirst! In

your instance, the question is not about inanimate objects, but of men,

women and children who owe their freedom to the grandfather of

Fredegonde's son. It is in my power to make their souls and bodies,

their whole generation, writhe with pain! Oh, no later than to-morrow

all the inhabitants of that accursed valley will be sent as slaves to

the savage tribes that have come from Germany. It will be but an advance

payment on the pillage that was promised them."

"Very well. You will send troops to the Valley. They will force their

way in, arms in hand; they will crush our inhabitants despite any

resistance that they may offer, and however heroic. Men, women and

children will know how to die. After a stubborn fight, your soldiers

will find upon their entrance into the Valley only corpses and ashes.

But you seem to forget that war has been declared between you and

Fredegonde's son, that the moment is critical, and that you require all

your available forces in order to resist your enemies. Execrated by the

people, execrated by the seigneurs, the leading ones of whom have

already joined the standard of Clotaire II, you are hardly certain of

the loyalty of your own army, seeing that you have been obliged to call

savage tribes to your aid and to allure them with the prospect of

pillage. You seem to forget that, guided by an unerring instinct, and

seeing the power of the mayors of the palaces on the ascendant, the

people look upon these as the natural enemies of the Frankish Kings and

are ready to revolt in support of the former. Despite the heroic

resistance that they will offer, our people of the Valley will be

crushed. I admit it. But do you imagine that the surrounding

populations, however timid and cowed they may be, will remain impassive

when they will see people of their own race slaughtered to the last man

in the defense of their freedom? The horror of conquest, the hatred for

slavery, the unbearable hardships of poverty have more than once driven

people steeped in deeper degradation than our own to serious and

stubborn revolt. To-morrow, who knows! some frightful insurrection may

break out against you, called into being by the voice of the grandees

who abhor you."

"And are the seigneurs, perchance, not the enemies of your race as much

as the kings?"

"Yes; after their purpose is attained, after your ruin is accomplished,

the seigneurs will crush the people just as you are doing now. After the

first explosion of its rage is over, the unhappy people will resume its

old yoke with docility--because the time has not yet arrived for their

liberation! But what does that matter! Such a revolt at this time, in

the very heart of your kingdom, when your most implacable enemy

threatens your frontiers, at an hour when treason surrounds you at every

turn--such a revolt would to-day mean your utter annihilation--it would

deliver you and your kingdoms to your ferocious enemy, Fredegonde's

son!"

At the sound of that name Brunhild trembled with rage. With her head

inclined and her eyes fixed upon the ground, the Queen seemed to listen

with increased attention to the words of Loysik, who continued with

bitter disdain:

"Behold, then, that Queen, the audacity of whose policy has rendered her

so famous! In order to cement her empire she has perpetrated crimes that

will one day cause the veracity of history to be doubted. And she is

about to endanger her kingdom, aye, her very life, out of hatred for a

handful of inoffensive people! Did these people at all injure her? No;

they were unknown to her until now; her attention was drawn to them by

the cupidity of a bishop who coveted their goods. Are the people whom

she wishes to drive to the heroism of despair, perchance, dangerous

enemies to her? No; they only ask to be allowed to continue to live in

freedom, peace and industry; if they can ever become dangerous it could

only be by the example of their resistance--not unlikely, their

martyrdom will provoke uprisings of which she herself will be the first

and leading victim. And yet this woman would rouse them to acts of

despair! She meditates punishing them on the ground that their freedom

is guaranteed by a king who has lain nearly half a century in his grave!

Oh, vertigo of crime! With what joy would I not see this woman throw

herself headlong into the abyss of her own digging were it not that her

feet must slide over the blood of my brothers!"

"Monk--it is an annoying circumstance that your age is that of a man who

is about to die. I would have made you the councillor to whose words I

would have given greatest weight. I shall follow your advice. Your

valley shall be spared--for the present. You speak truly. At this hour

when war threatens, when my grandees but await the opportune moment to

rebel against me--at such a time to drive the inhabitants of your valley

to despair, to martyrdom, would be an act of folly on my part."

Loysik promptly replied:

"My mission is accomplished; I demand of you no promises regarding the

monastery and the inhabitants of the Valley of Charolles; your own

interests are my best guarantee. I would now request of you a sheet of

parchment for me to write to my brother--and to my monks--just a few

lines. You are free to read them--it is my farewell words to my family;

I also wish to request my monks to set your chamberlain, the archdeacon,

and their men-at-arms free. One of your own messengers may carry the

letter."

"There is writing material on this table--you may sit down."

Loysik took a seat at the table and proceeded to write serenely.

Nevertheless such was his joy at having carried the difficult matter to

so successful an issue that his hand betrayed a slight tremor. Brunhild

followed him attentive and somber:

"You tremble--you must be afraid, old man!"

"The gratification of having warded off so many evils from the heads of

my brothers affects me and causes my hand to tremble. Here is the

letter--read it."

Brunhild read, and said as she rolled up the parchment:

"These words of farewell are simple, they are dignified and touching. I

understand better and better the powerful influence that you exercise

over those people--they are the arms, you the head. Within shortly they

will be a headless and, therefore, lifeless body. After the war is over

I shall find it easier to reduce them to obedience. Have you anything to

ask of me?"

"Nothing--except that you hasten my execution."

"I shall be magnanimous; your unshakable firmness pleases me; I shall

spare you the torture and I shall leave to you the choice of death. You

may choose between poison, iron, fire or water."

"Have my throat cut."

"It shall be as you wish, monk. Have you any other favor to ask?"

"Yes," said Loysik slowly stepping towards the ivory stand on which lay

the case of medals, "I would like to take with me this bronze medal; I

would like to keep it with me during the short time of life that is left

me. It will be sweet to me to die with my eyes fixed upon this glorious

effigy."

"Let me see what medal that is--they are all mere antique curiosities.

Truly, this woman is handsome, and proud under her Amazonian casque.

What is the inscription here below? _Victoria, Emperor_. A woman an

emperor?"

"The sovereign title was bestowed upon her after her death."

"She surely was of royal race?"

"She was of plebeian race."

"What was her life?"

"Simple--austere--illustrious! Her great soul was visible in her

serenely grave features--an august countenance that this bronze has

preserved for posterity. Her life was that of a chaste wife--a sublime

mother--a brave Gallic woman. She never left her modest home but to

follow her son to war, or to the camps. The soldiers worshipped her;

they called her their mother. She brought up her son manfully in the

love for his country and set him the example of the loftiest virtues.

Her ambition--"

"This austere woman was ambitious!"

"As much as a mother may be for her son. Her ambition was to render that

son a great citizen, the ardent desire of rendering him worthy of being

chosen chief of Gaul by the people and the army."

"Brought up by so incomparable a mother, was he elected?"

"Citizens and soldiers acclaimed him with one voice. By choosing him

they glorified Victoria--his stout-hearted preceptress. The brilliant

qualities that they honored in him were her work. The son's election

consecrated the sovereign influence of the mother--truly a sovereign in

point of courage, genius and goodness. An era of glory and prosperity

then opened to the country. Emancipating herself from the yoke of Rome,

Gaul, free and strong, drove the Franks far away from her borders and

began to enjoy the blessings of peace. And thus it came about that, from

one end of our territory to the other there was one name everywhere

idolized. That name--the first that the mothers taught their children

after that of God--that name, so popular, that name wreathed in

veneration and devoted love, was the name of Victoria!"

"In short, this woman, this incomparable mother, this divinity, this

object of veneration--reigned in her son's name!"

"Yes, as virtue reigns over the world! Invisible to the eyes, it is to

the heart that virtue reveals itself. As modest in her tastes as the

obscurest matron in the land, Victoria fled from the glamor of honors.

Living privately in a humble dwelling at Treves or Mayence, she

delighted in the glory of her son, and in the well-being of Gaul--but

not in order to reign as Queen--she despised royalty."

"And what was the cause of her haughty disdain for the great of the

earth?"

"She held that the right which kings arrogated to themselves of

transmitting to their children the ownership of the country with its

people, like a private domain with its cattle, was an outrage to the

majesty of man and a crime before God. She furthermore held that

hereditary rule depraves the best dispositions, and produces the

monsters that have horrified the world. Faithful to her principles, she

refused to render the power hereditary in her grandson."

"She had a grandson?"

"Like you, Victoria was a grandmother."

And Loysik looked fixedly at the Queen. There was, in the manner in

which Loysik accented the words addressed to Brunhild: _Like you,

Victoria, was a grandmother_--there was in his tone so crushing an

emphasis, so withering a condemnation of the shocking means employed by

the monster in order to deprave, enervate and morally kill her own

grandsons, whose lives she was nevertheless compelled to respect in

order that she might reign in their name, that Brunhild turned livid

with rage, but controlling herself so as not to expose the wound

inflicted upon her pride, dropped her eyes before the aged monk. Loysik

proceeded:

"Victoria was a grandmother, and, while ruling Gaul with her genius she

never dropped her distaff, which she ever plied near the cradle of her

grandson; she watched over him as she had done over the child's father,

with solicitous firmness; her hope was to render that child also a good

citizen and brave soldier. Her hope was dashed. A frightful plot dragged

into their graves both the son and grandson of the august woman. They

both perished in a popular uprising."

"Ha! Ha!" cried Brunhild breaking forth into a burst of sardonic

laughter, as if her gathering hatred for the Gallic heroine was

assuaged. "Such, then, is the justice of God!"

"Such is the justice of God--the crime enabled Victoria to bequeath to

the admiration of posterity a noble example of patriotism and

abnegation! After the death of her son and grandson, and being urgently

requested by the people, the army and the senate to govern

Gaul--Victoria refused. Aye," added Loysik in answer to a gesture of

surprise that escaped Brunhild, "aye, Victoria refused twice. She

designated the men whom she considered worthiest of being chosen chiefs

of the country, and rendered to them the all-powerful support of her own

popularity and the advice of her exceptional wisdom for the good of the

country. Victoria continued to live modestly in her retreat, and so long

as her life lasted, Gaul remained powerful and prosperous, rid both of

the Romans and the Franks. Victoria died. Her death was the climax of a

series of crimes of which her son and grandson were the first victims.

The illustrious woman died poisoned."

"Ha! Ha!" cried Brunhild breaking forth anew in a burst of sardonic

laughter. "Monk--monk--ever the justice of God!"

"Ever the justice of God--never was the death of the greatest geniuses

that ever shed splendor upon the world wept as the death of Victoria was

wept! One would have thought it was the funeral of Gaul! In the largest

cities, in the obscurest villages, tears flowed from all eyes.

Everywhere these words were heard, broken with sobs: 'We have lost our

mother!' The soldiers, those rough warriors of the legions of the Rhine,

whose faces a hundred battles had bronzed--those soldiers wept like

children. The mourning was universal; imposing as death itself. At

Mayence, where Victoria died, the spectacle of sorrow was sublime.

Reclining upon an ivory couch draped in gold cloth, Victoria lay in

state a week. Men, women, children, the army, the senate crowded the

street of her house. Each came to contemplate for a last time in pious

grief the august features of her who was the dearest, the most admired

glory of Gaul--"

"Monk!" cried Brunhild seizing the arm of the venerable old man and

seeking to drag him after her; "the executioners must be waiting--"

Loysik exerted only the force of inertia to resist the Queen; he

remained motionless and continued in a calm and solemn voice:

"The mortal remains of Victoria the Great were placed upon the pyre and

disappeared in a flame, pure, brilliant and radiant as the life that she

had lived. Finally, in order to do honor to her virile genius across the

ages, the people of Gaul decreed to her the sovereign title that she had

ever declined out of her sublime modesty. It is now more than four

centuries ago since that bronze was cast in the effigy of _Victoria,

Emperor_."

As he uttered these last words, Loysik took the medal in his hands.

Brunhild, whose rage now reached a paroxysmal pitch, snatched the august

image from the old monk's hands, dashed it on the floor, and trampled

upon it in blind rage.

"Oh, Victoria! Victoria!" cried Loysik, his face beaming with exalted

enthusiasm. "Oh, woman Emperor! Heroine of Gaul! I can now die! Your

life will have been to Brunhild the punishment for her crimes!" And

turning toward the Queen, who continued a prey to the frenzied vertigo

that had seized her, he exclaimed triumphantly: "The glory of Victoria,

like the bronze that you are trampling under foot, defies your impotent

rage!"

At this point Warnachaire burst into the chamber crying:

"Madam--madam--disastrous tidings! A second messenger has just arrived

from the army. By a skilful manoeuvre Clotaire II surrounded our German

allies; the prospect of booty carried them over to the enemy's banners;

he is now advancing with forced marches upon Chalon. Your presence,

together with that of the young princes, in the army, is indispensible

at this critical moment. I have just issued the necessary orders for

your immediate departure. Come, madam, come! The safety of your

kingdoms, perhaps your own life, is at stake--as you know, the son of

Fredegonde is implacable!"

Struck with stupor at the sudden news Brunhild at first remained

petrified, with her foot still resting upon the medal of Victoria. An

instant later she had recovered herself, and in a clamorous voice, that

sounded like the roar of an infuriate lioness, she cried:

"To me, my leudes! A horse--a horse! Brunhild will either be killed at

the head of her army or the son of Fredegonde will meet his death in

Burgundy. Send for the young princes! To horse. All forces on the

march!"

PART III.

THE CAMP OF CLOTAIRE.

CHAPTER I.

WEEDING KINGLETS.

The village of Ryonne, situated on the banks of the little river of

Vigienne, lies about three days' march from Chalon. Around the village a

portion of the troops of Clotaire II, son of Fredegonde, lie encamped.

The King's tent has been set up under a clump of trees in the middle of

the village. The sun has only just risen. Not far from the royal shelter

stands a farmhouse. It is larger than any other in sight, and also in

better condition. Its door is closed, and two Frankish soldiers are on

guard before it. The only light that enters the house penetrates through

a little window. From time to time one of the soldiers who is posted

outside, looks in and listens through the window. A worm-eaten old

trunk, two or three stools, a few household utensils, and a long box

filled with straw--such are the furnishings of the place. On that rough

straw couch are three children. They are clad in gold-and silver-trimmed

silk clothes. Who may these children be, so magnificently clad, yet

lying on that pallet like the children of slaves? They are the children

of Thierry, the late King of Burgundy; they are the great-grandchildren

of Brunhild. The three children are asleep in one another's arms.

Sigebert, the eldest, lies between his two brothers; Merovee's head, the

youngest of the three, lies on Sigebert's breast. Corbe, the second, has

his arm around his eldest brother's neck. The faces of the little

princes, as they lie soundly asleep, are half hidden by their long hair,

the symbol of the royal family. They seem to lie peacefully, almost

happily. Especially the face of the eldest has an expression of angelic

serenity. As the sun mounted higher and higher above the horizon, it

presently darted its luminous and warm rays upon the group of sleeping

children. Awakened by the heat and the brilliancy of the light, Sigebert

passed his white wan hands over his large and still half-closed eyes; he

opened them; looked around with surprise; sat up on the pallet; and, as

if suddenly remembering the sad reality, he threw himself back upon the

straw. Tears soon inundated his pale visage, and he laid his hands over

his lips in order to suppress the sobs that were struggling to escape.

The poor child feared to awaken his younger brothers. They were still

soundly asleep, and, despite the movements of Sigebert, who, as he sat

up, caused the head of Merovee to roll upon the straw, the latter's

profound rest was not interrupted. Corbe, however, who was also half

awakened by the heat of the sun, rubbed his eyes and mumbled:

"Chrotechilde, I want my milk--my cake--I am hungry."

"Corbe," Sigebert whispered to him with his face bathed in tears and his

lips palpitating; "brother--wake up. Alack, we are no longer in our

palace at Chalon."

At these words, Corbe woke up completely, and answered with a sigh:

"I thought we were in our palace."

"We are not there any longer, brother; I am so sorry!"

"Why do you say that? Are we no longer the King's sons?"

"We are poor King's sons--we are here in prison. But grandmother, where

is she? And where is our brother Childebert? Where can they be? Perhaps

they also are prisoners."

"And whose fault is it? It is the fault of the army that betrayed us!"

cried little Corbe angrily. "I heard everybody say so around us--the

troops fled without striking a blow. I heard them say that Duke

Warnachaire prepared the treason! Oh, the scoundrel!"

"Not so loud, Corbe, not so loud!" cautioned Sigebert with a smothered

voice. "You will wake up Merovee--poor little fellow! I wish I could

sleep like him. I would not then be thinking."

"You are always weeping, Sigebert; tell me why?"

"Are we not now in the hands of our grandmother's enemies?"

"Be not afraid; she will soon come with another army and set us free;

she will kill Clotaire. Are you not hungry?"

"No! Oh, no! I am neither hungry nor thirsty."

"The sun has long been up; they will surely soon bring us something to

eat. Grandmother was right; war is tiresome and uncomfortable, but only

when one is not a prisoner. But how Merovee does sleep! Wake him up!"

"Oh, brother, let him sleep quietly; perhaps he also thinks, as you did,

that he is in our palace at Chalon."

"So much the worse! We woke up--I do not want him to sleep any

longer--why should he?"

"Corbe, you can not have a good heart."

"Sigebert! They are opening the door--they are bringing us something to

eat."

Indeed, the door opened. Four personages stepped into the house. Two of

them were clad in jackets of hides, and one of these carried a roll of

rope. Clotaire II and Warnachaire accompanied the two men. The duke had

his battle armor on, the King a long light blue silk robe bordered with

ermine.

"Seigneur King," said Duke Warnachaire in a low voice, "will you not

wait for the return of Constable Herpon?"

"Who can tell whether he will be back to-day?"

"You must remember that his horses are fresh; Brunhild's are exhausted

with the march. It is impossible that he should have failed to overtake

the Queen at the foot of the Jura mountains, into which she will not

dare to risk herself. The constable may be back with her from one moment

to another."

"Warnachaire, I am in a hurry to be done with it; such a blow will be

of little moment to Brunhild; why delay it to wait for her to witness?

It should be done quickly."

Saying this, the young King made a sign to the two men, who thereupon

stepped towards the three children on the straw pallet. The sleep of

childhood is so profound that little Merovee was not yet awakened by the

noise. His two brothers, however, crouched back into the remotest corner

of the pallet, stunned and frightened, especially at the sinister faces

of the two men clad in hide jackets. The two cowering children held each

other in a close embrace, trembling and without uttering a word. At a

second sign from Clotaire II, one of the two men, he who carried the

coil of rope, unwound it and stepped closer to the children, while his

companion drew from his belt a long, straight and sharp knife, of the

kind that is used by butchers; he slightly tested the freshly sharpened

edge of the blade with the tip of his thumb, while Fredegonde's son

urged the executioners on with the impatient order:

"Move on, slaves; hurry up!"

The executioner made to the King a sign with his hand, as if to say:

"You need not fear, I shall be quick about it." In the meantime his

assistant had come within reach of the children, who, livid and dumb

with terror, trembled so convulsively that their teeth were heard to

chatter. The executioner's assistant placed a hand on each, and without

turning his head asked:

"Which first? The taller, the smaller, or the one asleep?"

"Begin with the eldest," answered Clotaire II in a hollow imperious

voice. "Hurry up! Hurry up!"

The two children retreated still farther back into the corner in which

the pallet was placed and did not loosen their hold upon each other.

"Mercy!" cried Sigebert in a smothered and plaintive voice. "Mercy for

my brother! Mercy for me!"

"We are a King's sons!" cried Corbe with even more anger than fear. "If

you do any harm to me, my grandmother will have you all killed!"

At this moment, awakened at last by the noise, little Merovee sat up on

the pallet and looked around with wonderment but not in terror. The

six-year-old child could not understand what was going on; he rubbed his

eyes and turning his little head, with his eyes still swollen with

sleep, hither and thither, he looked alternately from the four new

arrivals to his brothers, as if asking what it all meant. The King

having said "Begin with the eldest," the assistant seized Sigebert. More

dead than alive, the hapless child offered no resistance, but let

himself be bound hands and feet, as the lamb does in the

slaughter-house; he only murmured in a woebegone voice:

"Seigneur King! Good seigneur King, do not have us killed--why would you

have us killed? We are willing to be slaves. Send us out to herd your

sheep far away from here; we shall obey you in all things; but, O,

seigneur, mercy, good seigneur King, mercy! Mercy for my two little

brothers and for me!"

As a worthy grandson of Clotaire I, Clotaire II remained unmoved by the

prayers of his victim.

Sigebert passed from the hands of the assistant to those of the

executioner. The child's arms were bound behind his back, and his feet

were tied together; his physical prostration rendered him unable to keep

upon his feet. He fell upon his knees before the slaughterer. The latter

took hold of the child by its long hair and firmly bending its neck back

against his own knee left the child's throat well distended and exposed

to the knife. With a smothered voice and casting an agonizing glance at

the mayor of the palace Sigebert murmured:

"Warnachaire, you who called me during our late journey your 'dear boy,'

will you not implore mercy for me--"

These were the innocent child's last words. Clotaire II gave a motion of

impatience. The executioner approached his knife to the child's throat,

but doubtlessly experiencing a fleeting sentiment of pity, he turned his

head aside and shut his eyes as if to escape seeing the dying glance of

his victim. The movement was but transitory, the long knife quickly

plowed its way through the child's throat and, operated as a saw, cut

down until it struck the vertebrae of the neck. Two jets of purple blood

spurted from the wide-gaping wound and fell in opposite directions like

a ruddy dew on a fold of the robe of Fredegonde's son and upon the iron

greaves of Duke Warnachaire. Withdrawing his knee which had served him

for a block, the executioner left the body to its own weight. It fell

backward; the inert head rebounded upon the floor; a slight tremor ran

over the expiring child's shoulders and limbs, and the lifeless body of

Sigebert sank motionless in a pool of blood.

During the time that the murder of Sigebert was enacting, Merovee wept

scalding tears on the straw where he remained seated; the child wept

because, as he murmured, 'they were hurting' his brother, but with one

so young no thought of death could enter his head. His brother Corbe,

however, a boy of violent and vindictive character, did not emulate the

gentle resignation of Sigebert. He fought and shrieked, and tried to

bite and scratch the assistant who was to bind him fast. The latter was

only tying the last knots when the first child's throat was cut.

"Dogs! Murderers!" cried Corbe in his weak, shrill voice, while his eyes

flashed fire from the midst of his pale face. He straightened himself

and he writhed so convulsively in his bonds that the executioner was

hardly able to hold him. "Oh!" he screamed, grinding his teeth and

panting for breath in the struggle; "Oh, my grandmother will put you all

to the torture for this--you will see--you will see--Pog will get you,

yes--every one of you--you will be put to awful tortures!"

Turning towards the mayor of the palace of Burgundy, Clotaire II said,

pointing his finger at Corbe: "Warnachaire, it would have been

impolitic to leave this hateful and vindictive child alive! Even if

dethroned he would have become a dangerous man."

It took both the Frankish executioners to overpower Corbe. But neither

his screams nor leaps could avail him. Seeing that he struggled

violently in his bonds, the assistant knelt down upon the child's chest

in order to pin him to the ground, while the executioner himself wound

around his wrist the long hair of the young prince, and was thus able to

draw the head towards himself so as to leave the neck distended and

exposed to the knife. A second time the blade cut into the flesh; a

second time the blood spurted out--and the corpse of Corbe rolled over

upon that of his brother.

Only little Merovee was left. The child had remained on the straw

pallet. Whether out of ignorance of the danger that he was in, or

whether due to the thoughtlessness of infancy, when he saw the

executioner's assistant approach him, he rose, walked towards him

submissively, and referring to the resistance that Corbe offered, said

with infantine innocence as he wiped off his tears:

"My brother Sigebert did not resist--I shall be as gentle as

Sigebert--but do not hurt me."

Saying this the child then threw his little blonde head back and himself

offered his neck to the executioner.

At that instant, a rider covered with dust burst into the house crying

in a voice half choked with gladness:

"Great King! I have ridden ahead of Constable Herpon. He brings Queen

Brunhild prisoner. After two days of the hottest chase, he succeeded in

overtaking her at Orbe, in the foot-hills of the Jura."

"Oh, my mother! You will soon thrill with joy in your sepulchre. I have,

at last, in my power the woman whom you were not able to smite!"

exclaimed the son of Fredegonde. He then turned to the executioners who

still held Merovee in their hands: "Do not kill that child--let him be

taken to my tent. Wait for my orders. You do not know, oh, great Queen,

what glory awaits you!" added Clotaire II with an expression of diabolic

ferocity. And addressing Warnachaire: "Let us now go out and give a

worthy reception to this daughter of a King, this wife of a King, this

grandmother and great-grandmother of Kings--Brunhild, Queen of Burgundy

and Austrasia! Come, come!"

CHAPTER II.

AT BAY.

What noise is that? It sounds like the distant and muffled tread and

cries of a large multitude. Aye, large indeed is the multitude that is

advancing towards the village of Ryonne, where the army of Clotaire II

is encamped. Whence does that multitude proceed? Oh, it comes from far.

It started as far away as the slopes of the Jura; it was swelled on the

road by large numbers of the people who inhabited the cities, hamlets

and villages that it crossed; slaves and colonists, young and old men,

women and children, poured from their homes, their fields, their huts;

at the risk of imprisonment, the lash and even mutilation at their

return, slaves and colonists joined the swelling multitude; at the risk

of the fatigue of the rapid march, that for some, lasted two days, for

others, one day, half a day, two hours, or one hour, according to where

they fell in line, city people left their pursuits and eagerly turned

into the surging human stream. But what was it that attracted so eagerly

the frantic, swelling crowd? It was these words, that flew from mouth to

mouth: "Queen Brunhild is passing--she is taken prisoner to be delivered

to Fredegonde's son!"

Aye, such was the hatred, the disgust, the horror, the dread inspired in

Gaul by those two names--Fredegonde and Brunhild--that large numbers of

people found it impossible to resist the curiosity of knowing and seeing

what was to be the issue of the capture of Brunhild by Fredegonde's son.

The multitude, accordingly, moved in the direction of the village of

Ryonne. Fifty horsemen in arms headed the march and cleared the way.

Behind them rode Constable Herpon armed cap-a-pie, and closely after

him, riding between two other warriors on horseback who held her palfrey

by the bridle appeared Brunhild. The old Queen's arms were pinioned

behind her back and she was bound upon her saddle. Her long,

gold-embroidered purple robe was dusty and mud-bespattered, and hung in

tatters from her body. The indomitable woman had offered a desperate

resistance when she was finally overtaken by the constable and his men.

One of her sleeves, together with half her corsage, was torn off, and

left bare her neck and shoulders and one of her arms, all of which were

covered with livid, bluish bruises, partly hidden under her long, grey,

tangled and tumbled hair to which fragments of dung and ordure, that the

people had flung at her while whelming her with insults, were still seen

to cling. From time to time, the fettered lioness gave her head a

convulsive shake in the effort to disengage her face from the disheveled

locks before it--at such times, glimpses were obtained of her hideous,

horrible visage. Before being finally caught, the woman had defended

herself like a wild animal at bay. The desire of her captors was to take

her alive to the son of her mortal enemy. In the brutal hand to hand

struggle of Constable Herpon and his armed men with Brunhild she was

smitten with their fists in the face and kicked in the body. Her arms,

shoulders, bosom, limbs and face were severely bruised. One of her eyes

bore the mark of a violent blow, given with the hilt of a sword. The

eyelids and a portion of the cheek disappeared under a large blue and

black contusion. Her upper lip was slit and swollen as the result of

another blow, that broke in two of her teeth and bathed her lower face

in blood. The blood had since dried on her skin and added to the

hideousness of her appearance. Nevertheless, of such temper was that

being's savage energy, that her forehead retained its wonted

haughtiness, her eyes their wonted pride. Firmly fettered though she

was, bruised, tattered, covered with dust, mud and even dung, Brunhild

still looked redoubtable. Imprecations, hisses, jeers, threats, hurled

at her along the route--nothing had been able to shake her inflexible

soul.

In his haste to relish the sight of his captive and victim, Clotaire

left the village and rode out accompanied by Warnachaire to meet her.

Other seigneurs of Burgundy and Austrasia, who sided with Clotaire, also

followed him. Among the latter were Dukes Pepin, Arnolfe, Alethee,

Eubelan, Roccon, Sigowald, the Bishop of Troyes and many more.

Seeing the King from a distance, Constable Herpon hastened towards his

sovereign, after issuing his orders to the two riders who led Brunhild's

mount. The latter immediately spurred their horses and rode rapidly upon

the heels of the constable leading the fallen Queen between them. Old

though she was, had she not been pinioned, Brunhild would have held her

saddle like an Amazon. But hindered by the bonds that bound her, she was

unable to follow with suppleness the motion of her mount. As a

consequence, the gallop of her palfrey threw Brunhild's body into

ridiculous jumps and postures. The escort of armed men on horseback,

together with the mob, followed her on the run and whelmed her with

fresh jeers and hisses. Constable Herpon finally reached the King,

leaped from his horse and pointing to the old Queen said to his men:

"Set her on the ground. Leave only her arms tied behind her back."

The riders obeyed, and the cords that bound Brunhild to the saddle were

unfastened. But the long pressure of the ligaments had so benumbed her

limbs that she was unable to stand upon her legs and forced her to drop

upon her knees. Immediately she cried out, lest her fall be construed as

an evidence of weakness or fear:

"My limbs are numb--Brunhild does not fall upon her knees before her

enemies!"

The Frankish warriors raised and held the Queen. Her favorite palfrey,

the same that she rode on the day of the battle, and from which she had

just alighted, stretched out its intelligent head and gently licked the

Queen's hands, tied up behind her. For the first time, but only for a

moment, were Brunhild's features expressive of aught but savage pride

and concentrated rage. Turning her head over her shoulder, she said to

the animal in a voice that sounded almost tender:

"Poor animal; you did your best to save me with the swiftness of your

flight--but your strength gave out; and now you bid me adieu in your own

way; you entertain no hatred for Brunhild; but Brunhild is proud of

being hated by all others--because she is feared by all--"

Clotaire II drew slowly near to the old Queen. A wide circle consisting

of Frankish seigneurs, warriors of the army and the mob that had

followed formed itself around the son of Fredegonde and her mortal

enemy. What with the sight of that King, and what with her own

determination not to falter in his presence, Brunhild summoned an energy

and strength that seemed superhuman. Addressing the warriors who held

her under the arms she shouted savagely:

"Back--take your hands from me--I can stand alone!"

Indeed, she stood unsupported, and took two steps towards the King as if

to prove to him that she felt neither weakness nor fear. Thus Clotaire

II and Brunhild found themselves face to face in the center of a circle

that drew closer and closer. The vast crowd was hushed in profound

silence; with bated breath the issue of the terrible interview was

awaited. With his arms crossed over his heaving breast, Fredegonde's son

contemplated his victim wrapt in silent and savage joy. Brunhild broke

the silence. With head erect and intrepid mien she said in her sharp,

penetrating voice that resounded clearly at a distance:

"First of all, good morning to good Warnachaire, the cowardly soldier,

who ordered my army to flee. Thanks to your infamous treachery, here am

I--I, the daughter, wife and mother of Kings--with my arms pinioned, my

face bruised with the fist-blows given me, soiled with dung, mud and

ordure thrown at me by the people along the road.--Triumph, son of

Fredegonde! Triumph, young man! For two days the populace have been

whelming with hisses, contempt and dirt the Frankish royalty, your own,

the royalty of your own family in my person! You have vanquished me, but

never will the royalty recover from the blow that you have dealt me!"

"Glorious King," said the Bishop of Troyes to Clotaire II in a low

voice, "order that woman to be gagged; her tongue is more venomous than

an asp's."

"On the contrary, I wish her to speak; I shall enjoy the torture that

her pride undergoes."

While the prelate and the King were exchanging these words, Brunhild had

proceeded with an ever more resonant voice, waving her head at the crowd

of warriors:

"Stupid people! Besotted people!--You respect us, you fear us, us of the

royal family,--and yet it is a royal face that you see before you,

bruised with fist-blows, like that of any vile slave! The mother of your

King--that Fredegonde who was prostituted to all the lackeys of

Chilperic's palace--must often have looked as I do now, every time that

she was beaten by one of her vulgar associates!"

"Dare you speak of prostitution, you old she-wolf bleached in

debauchery!" cried Clotaire II in a no less resonant voice than

Brunhild.

"Your mother Fredegonde had my husband Sigebert and my son Childebert

stabbed to death by her pages--"

"And you, miscreant, did not you have Lupence, the Bishop of St. Privat

murdered by Count Oabale, one of your lovers?"

"And did not Fredegonde in turn cause Pretextat to be assassinated in

the basilica of Rouen, as a punishment for his having married me to your

brother Merovee--"

"My brother Merovee married you, thanks to your sorceries, abominable

witch! And after you abused his youth you goaded him to parricide--you

armed him against his own father, who was also mine."

"And a loving father! Not content with having his son Merovee's throat

cut at Noisy, Chilperic delivered to the dagger and the poison of

Fredegonde all the children whom he had from his other wives."

"You lie, monster! You lie!" cried Clotaire II livid with rage and

grinding his teeth.

"Seigneur King, do order the woman to be gagged," again whispered the

Bishop of Troyes to the King.

"Of the many wives whom your father Chilperic repudiated there still

remained one alive, Andowere," Brunhild proceeded; "Andowere had two

children, Clodwig and Basine; the mother was strangled, the son stabbed

to death, and the daughter delivered to the pages of Fredegonde!"

"Hold your tongue, infamous woman, who introduce concubines into your

grandsons' chamber for the purpose of enervating them and reigning in

their stead; who order the assassination of whatever honorable people

revolt at such a crime--as happened to Berthoald, the mayor of the

palace of Burgundy, whom you ordered killed; as happened to Bishop

Didier whom you had stoned to death."

"After Chilperic had my husband assassinated, he seized my relative

Sigila and ordered the joints of his limbs to be burned with red-hot

irons, his nose cut off, his eyes put out, red-hot irons thrust under

his nails, and finally his hands, then his arms, then his lower legs and

finally his upper legs cut off--every imaginable torture!"

"Warnachaire!" cried Clotaire purple with rage, "remember all those

tortures; forget not one; we shall presently find whom to apply them

to;" and addressing Brunhild, "And did not you yourself stain your hands

with the blood of your grandson Theudebert after the battle of Tolbiac?

And was not the head of his son, a child of five years dashed against a

stone at your orders?"

"And what blood is that, still fresh, with which your own robe is

bespattered? It is the innocent blood of three children, my grandsons,

whose kingdoms you have secured to yourself by their murder! And that is

the manner in which we all of us, people of the royal family, act. In

order to reign we kill our children, our relatives, our mates. Chilperic

stood in the way of your mother Fredegonde's vulgar pleasures, and she

had him despatched!"

"Gag that woman!" commanded Clotaire in a paroxysm of rage.

"Oh, my dear sons in Christ," shouted the Bishop of Troyes, endeavoring

to drown the panting voice of Brunhild; "place no faith in the words of

this execrable woman in matters that concern the family of our glorious

King Clotaire II.--These are infamous calumnies!"

"Warriors, I wish before I die, to unveil to you all the crimes of your

Kings."

"Hold your tongue, demon! Female Beelzebub!" again broke in the Bishop

of Troyes in a thundering voice, and he added in a lower voice to

Clotaire: "Glorious King, do you not think it is high time to have the

woman gagged? If you do not, you must prepare to hear even worse

accusations."

Two leudes, who at the first orders of Clotaire had looked for a scarf,

threw it over Brunhild's mouth and tied it behind her head.

"Oh, monster, spewed out of Hell!" the Bishop of Troyes thereupon

proceeded to apostrophise Brunhild, "if this glorious family of Frankish

Kings, to whom the Lord granted the possession of Gaul in reward for

their Catholic faith and their submission to the Church, if these Kings

had committed the crimes that you have the audacity of charging them

with in your diabolical spirit of mendacity, could they, as the visible

support given to them by God in overpowering their enemies, shows them

to be--could they be the beloved sons of our holy Church? Would we, the

fathers in Christ of the people of Gaul, order these to obey their Kings

and masters, and to submit to their will?--would we do so if they were

not the elect of the Lord? Go to--witch! You are the horror of the

world! The world now spews you back into hell, where you come from.

Return thither, Oh, monster, who sought to unnerve your grandsons with

debauchery, in order that you might reign in their place! Oh, my

brothers in Christ, who of you all does not shudder with horror at the

base thought of the unheard-of crime that this execrable woman has

gloried in?"

That crime, the most execrable of all that the infamous Queen had

admitted, aroused so profound an indignation among the assembled crowd

that one, unanimous cry of vengeance issued from its midst:--

"Death to Brunhild! Let the earth be rid of her! Let her perish amidst

tortures!"

CHAPTER III.

THE DEATH OF BRUNHILD.

Three days had elapsed since Brunhild fell into the power of Clotaire

II. The sun had crossed the zenith. A man with a long white beard, clad

in a hooded brown robe, and mounted upon a mule was following the road,

upon which, escorted by the armed men of her mortal foe, and leading

behind her a mob that rent the air with execrations, Brunhild had

shortly before ridden to the village of Ryonne. The venerable old man

was Loysik. He had escaped death by reason of the Queen's precipitate

departure from the castle. One of the young brothers of the community

accompanied the old monk on foot, guiding his mule by the bridle. From

the opposite direction, a warrior, armed cap-a-pie, was climbing on

horseback the rough road that Loysik was at the same time slowly

descending with his mule. When the Frank had come within a few paces of

the old man, the latter opened up a conversation with him:

"Are you of King Clotaire's suite?"

"Yes, holy man."

"Is he still at the village of Ryonne?"

"Yes; he will be there till this evening.--I am to ride ahead and

prepare his lodgings on the route."

"Is Duke Roccon among the seigneurs who accompany the King?"

"Yes, monk; Duke Roccon is with the King."

"Is it true, as I hear, that Queen Brunhild has been taken prisoner and

carried to King Clotaire, who has also captured her grandchildren?"

"That is all old news. Where do you come from that you do not know what

has happened?"

"I come from Chalon.--What did the King do with his prisoner and her

grandchildren?"

"The steep ascent has taken the wind out of my horse and he needs a

little rest. So I shall tell you what has happened--all the more

willingly, seeing that it is a good augury to meet a priest, especially

a monk, at the start of a journey."

"Do let me know, I beg you; what has been done with Brunhild and her

grandchildren?"

"There were only three of the children captured on the banks of the

Saone. The fourth, Childebert, could be found nowhere.--Was he killed in

the melee?--Did he escape?--No one can tell.--"

"And the other three?"

"The eldest and the second one were killed."

"In the battle?"

"No--no.--They were killed in the village--yonder. The King had them

killed under his own eyes, in order to be certain of their death; he

wanted to obviate having them turn up some day, and demand their kingdom

back from him. But it is said that the King granted his life to the

third.--I think he was wrong in that.--But what ails you, holy father;

you seem to shiver. To be sure, the morning is rather chilly."

"And what became of Queen Brunhild?"

"She arrived at the village with a magnificent escort! A veritable

triumphal march! Dung for incense, and hootings for acclamation!"

"I suppose the King ordered her to be put to death immediately upon her

arrival?"

"No; she is still alive."

"Did Clotaire have mercy upon her?"

"Clotaire--have mercy upon Brunhild!--Holy man, you must come from far

away to talk as you do! Brunhild was taken three days ago to that

village that you see yonder; she was taken to the house where her

grandchildren were killed. Two expert executioners and four assistants,

equipped with all manner of instruments, were locked up with the old

Queen; that was three days ago, and she is not yet dead. I must add that

she was not tortured at night; the nights were left to her to recover

strength. Moreover, seeing that she undertook to starve herself, food

was forced down her throat--spiced wines and flour soaked in milk. That

has kept her sufficiently alive.--But what makes you shiver so? It is

not so chilly!"

"Yes; the morning is chilly.--And did Clotaire witness the tortures that

were inflicted upon the Queen during those three days?"

"The door of the house was locked and guarded by sentinels. But there is

a little window through which one can look inside. Through that opening,

the King, the dukes, the leudes, the Bishop of Troyes and a few other

preferred personages went from time to time to contemplate the victim in

her agony. Being a connoisseur, Clotaire never took a look inside when

Brunhild was screaming; at times the woman screamed loud enough to be

heard clean across the village; he never went to see her at such times;

but the moment she began to moan, he walked to the window and peeped in;

it is said the sufferings of victims in the torture are intenser when

they moan than when they scream out aloud. It was a protracted holiday

for the whole village. Like the generous King that he is, Clotaire

allowed a large number of people, who followed Brunhild to the village,

to remain to the end of the tortures, and had provisions distributed

among them. Oh, holy man, you should have heard how they kept time with

their hootings to the screams of the Queen.--But I see my horse has

regained his wind--adieu, holy man. If you wish to witness a spectacle

that you never saw and never will see again you would better hurry. They

say there are yet to be some extraordinary incidents to wind up the

torture. The King has sent for one of the camels that carry his

baggage. What he purposes to do with the camel is still a secret. Adieu,

give me your blessing."

"I wish you a happy journey."

"Thank you, holy man; but you had better hurry, because as I was leaving

the village they went for the camel and took him out of his stable."

Pricking his horse with his spurs, the rider rode off at a brisk pace.

Shortly afterwards, Loysik arrived at the entrance of the village of

Ryonne. The aged monk alighted from his mule and asked the young brother

to wait for him. A leude, from whom Loysik inquired after Duke Roccon,

took him to the tent of the Frankish seigneur, contiguous to that of the

King. Almost immediately afterwards the monk was taken to the duke, who

said to him in a tone of respectful deference:

"You here, my good father in Christ?"

"I come with a just petition to you."

"If it is at all in my power, the matter is granted."

"Are you a friend of King Clotaire? Have you any influence with him?"

"If you have any favor to prefer to him, you could hardly arrive at a

better time."

"I come for no favors from the King--I come for justice. Here is a

charter given by his grandfather Clotaire I. As a matter of law, it

requires no confirmation, seeing that the concession is absolute. But

the Bishop of Chalon is giving us trouble. He is laying claims upon the

goods of the monastery, upon those of the inhabitants of the Valley,

and, as a consequence, upon their freedom, notwithstanding both their

goods and their freedom are guaranteed by this charter.--Would you be

willing to request Clotaire, who is now the King of Burgundy, to attach

his seal to the charter issued by his grandfather, in order to insure

its enforcement?"

"Is that all you wish to ask of the King?--The King honors the memory of

his glorious grandfather too highly to fail to confirm a charter issued

by that great Prince. Clotaire must now be in his tent. Wait for me

here, my father in Christ. I shall be back soon."

During the short absence of the Frankish seigneur, Loysik could hear the

uproar of the impatient crowd and warriors calling aloud for Brunhild.

Duke Roccon returned quickly with the old charter of Clotaire I, to

which Clotaire II had attached his seal under the following freshly

written words:

"We will it, and we so order all our leudes, dukes, counts and

bishops, that the above charter, signed by our glorious grandfather

Clotaire, be upheld in force and respected in all its provisions in

the present and in the future, and we do so in the belief that we

thereby do honor to our glorious ancestor. And those who are to

succeed me will uphold this donation inviolate, if they wish to

share the life everlasting, and if they wish to be saved from the

everlasting flames. Whoever in any manner does violence to this

donation, may the gateman of heaven diminish his share of heaven;

whoever may add to the donation, may the gateman of heaven add

something unto him."

The aged monk inquired from the duke who it was that wrote the last

words to the charter, and was not a little surprised to hear that it was

the Bishop of Troyes.

"You must, then, have said nothing to the King concerning the

pretensions of the Bishop of Chalon--"

"I did not consider that necessary. I said to Clotaire: 'I request you

to confirm this charter, which your grandfather granted to a holy man of

God.' 'I can refuse nothing to my loyal servitors,' he answered, and he

charged the bishop to write what was proper. That being done, the King

attached his royal seal under the writing."

"Roccon," said the venerable monk, "I thank you--adieu--"

But recollecting himself, Loysik added:

"You told me that the moment was favorable to obtain favors from the

King--promise me that you will ask him to enfranchise a few slaves of

the royal fisc, and to send them to me to the monastery of the Valley of

Charolles."

"Ah, my father in Christ! I knew full well that our conversation would

not be done without your making some demand of enfranchisement."

"Roccon, you have a wife and children--the accidents of war are

changeable. Brunhild is now vanquished and a prisoner; but, if that

implacable Queen, who has emerged so often victorious from the field of

battle, had not been betrayed by her own army and her auxiliaries--had

she, on the contrary, vanquished Clotaire, what would your lot have

been, what the lot of all the seigneurs of Burgundy, who took the side

of the King? What would have become of your wife, of your daughters?"

"Brunhild would have ordered my head cut off; she would have delivered

my wife and daughters to the savage tribes of the other side of the

Rhine as slaves!--Malediction! My two daughters Bathilde and

Hermangarde, slaves!--The perspiration gathers on my temples at the bare

thought of such a thing--let us not speak of it!"

"On the contrary, do let us speak of it! Who knows but that among those

unknown slaves, whose freedom I am asking, there may be some with

daughters whom they love as much as you love yours.--Judge of the joy

that their deliverance would give them by the joy that you and your

children would feel if, having become slaves, you were to be set free.

Roccon, it is in your power to afford such ineffable joy to some

captives.--Keep your dear daughters in mind."

"Very well my dear father in Christ, I promise you ten slaves. Clotaire

will not refuse them to me as my share of the booty of this war."

"Seigneur duke," said a servant who hurried into the tent, "the

promenade of the camel is about to begin."

"Oh! Oh! It is to be one of the best spectacles of the feast.--Come, my

father in Christ!"

"Oh!" cried the aged man horrified. "I do not wish to stay an instant

longer in this horrible place.--Adieu, Roccon!"

"Adieu, good father, you will pray to God for me, in order that I may

have a good part of paradise."

"Man finds paradise in his own heart when he acts justly: the priests

who promise heaven are knaves. I shall pray to God that He may inspire

you to perform charitable deeds.--Adieu."

Loysik left the duke's tent expecting to be able to leave the village

instantly. His hope was not verified. As he walked away he found himself

in a narrow street that divided two rows of huts and was cut at right

angles by a wide highroad. Loysik was walking thither in order to rejoin

the young brother who guarded his mule, when suddenly the uproar of

voices, that had before smitten his ears several times, broke out louder

and nearer. Immediately thereupon, a crowd of the people who had

followed Brunhild to the village in order to enjoy the sight of her

death, broke forth like an eruption out of the highway, poured over the

narrow street, and despite Loysik's efforts to disengage himself,

carried him away like a straw by the torrent. The flood of people

consisted of men, women and children; they were all in rags; they were

slaves and were of the Gallic race. All cried at the top of their

voices:

"Brunhild is coming out of the camp! She will pass this way!"

Loysik made no further efforts to contend against the crowd; he found

himself pushed forward until further progress was barred at the sort of

square in the center of which rose the tent of Clotaire II. A strong

cordon of warriors drawn around the place, prevented the mob from

entering it. As he stood there, in the very front ranks of the surging

crowd Loysik witnessed the following spectacle:

Before him extended a rather wide avenue, now completely deserted of

people; to his left the entrance to the royal tent; before the tent,

Clotaire II, surrounded by the seigneurs of his suite, among whom was

the Bishop of Troyes. Two slaves on foot brought and kept before the

King a spirited stallion, which they were hardly able to curb by means

of two thongs attached to his bit; the animal reared violently although

his hind legs were hoppled. With blood-shot eyes and dilated nostrils,

the powerful beast made such frantic efforts to tear himself from the

two slaves that his deep black coat streamed with sweat on his flanks

and chest. The animal carried no saddle; his long mane floated to the

breeze, or fell down over and almost completely covered his savage head.

Despite all, the slaves succeeded in leading the stallion to Clotaire's

tent. The King made a sign. Immediately, at the imminent risk of being

trampled to pieces, the unhappy slaves crawled down upon their hands and

knees, and slipped a rope with a running knot over each of the animal's

hind legs; other slaves thereupon kept the horse in sufficient control

to allow the removal of his hopples. During this perilous process, the

stallion became so furious that he reared and struck one of the slaves

on the head with his front hoofs; the luckless fellow fell bleeding

under the feet of the animal that then stooped, bit him ferociously, and

crushed his bones with the trample of his hoofs. The corpse was removed,

and two other slaves received orders to join those who, in order to

control the stallion, clung with all their might to the thongs from his

bit. Again cries were heard, first from a distance, but drawing nearer

and nearer. The highroad, deserted but a moment before and running into

the square in front of Loysik, was suddenly filled with a dense mass of

foot soldiers, and presently a camel that towered by the full height of

its body over the armed multitude, hove in sight of the aged monk. The

troop of Frankish soldiers rent the air with their clamor:

"Brunhild! Brunhild! Triumph to Brunhild--Queen, look down upon your

good people of Burgundy who are at your feet!"

Although in a dying state, although broken down by the tortures that she

had undergone during the last three days, still the old Queen, recalled

from her stupor by the loudness of the yells that broke out all around

her, found strength enough to raise herself for a last time upon the

back of the camel, astride of whose back she had been placed and firmly

bound. She was only a few steps from where Loysik stood. What the

venerable monk then saw--Oh, what he saw is nameless, like the crimes of

Brunhild herself. Her long, white, tangled, blood-clotted hair was the

only--the only cover to the nakedness of the old Queen. The woman's

legs; her thighs, her shoulders, her bosom, in short her every limb was

no longer of human shape; it was but a heap of palpitating wounds and

swollen, blackened, bleeding burns; two of her toe-nails, that had been

pulled out, still hung dangling from reddening pellicules at her great

toes; in the other toes of her feet and in her fingers, long iron

needles were seen inserted between the nail and the flesh. Only her face

had been spared. Despite its cadaverous paleness; despite the traces of

the unheard-of superhuman sufferings that it registered, left there by

the tortures inflicted during the three consecutive days;--despite all,

her face still bore the stamp of pride; a frightful smile curled the

Queen's purplish lips; a flash of savage haughtiness illumined from time

to time her breaking eyes. And, oh, fatality, those eyes alighted

accidentally upon Loysik at the moment that Brunhild passed before him.

At the sight of the monk, whose robe, long white beard and tall stature

had attracted the dying Queen's eyes, her body seemed thrilled by a

sudden emotion; she straightened in her seat; and gathering the little

strength that still remained to her, she cried in a voice of despair,

that sounded almost repentant:

"Monk, your speech was soothe--there is a justice in heaven! At this

hour I am thinking, I am thinking--I am thinking of the death of

Victoria."

The furious hootings of the crowd drowned Brunhild's voice; her last

effort, put forth in raising herself and speaking to Loysik exhausted

her failing strength. She fell over backward, and her inert body jolted

up and down over the camel's crupper. Loysik had long struggled against

the horror of the shocking spectacle. Hardly had Brunhild's voice ceased

to be heard than he felt his head swim and his knees sink under him. But

for two poor women, who, struck with compassion for his old age,

supported him, the monk would have fallen to the ground and been

trampled to death.

Loysik remained for a long time deprived of consciousness. When he

recovered, night had come. He found himself lying in a hut upon a bed of

straw. Beside him sat the young brother, who had succeeded in finding

him. The two poor slave women had transported Loysik to their miserable

hut. The first words pronounced by the monk, whose mind still labored

under the effect of the horrible scene that he had witnessed, was the

name of Brunhild.

"Good father," said one of the women, "the hated Queen was taken down

from the camel; she was then only a corpse; she was fastened with ropes

by the hands to the tail of a fiery horse, and the animal was then let

loose; but that part of the execution did not last long; at the very

first bound given by the horse it shattered Brunhild's head; her skull

broke like the shell of a nut, and her brains were scattered in all

directions."

Suddenly the young monk laborer said to Loysik, pointing in the

direction of the glimmer that must have been produced by the reflection

of a great but distant fire:

"Do you hear those distant yells? Do you see that light?"

"That light, my son, is the light cast by the pyre that Clotaire II

ordered raised," said one of the two old women; "those yells are the

yells of the people dancing around the fire."

"What pyre?" asked Loysik with a shudder. "Of what pyre are you

speaking?"

"After the wild horse broke the head of Brunhild, the people who came to

the village in order to see her die besought the King to have the

accursed remains of the old she-wolf placed upon a pyre; the King gave

his consent before his departure; he departed soon afterwards. The pyre

was raised yonder at the square, and the light reaches us."

The evening breeze carried to Loysik's ears the cries of frantic joy,

uttered by the crowd, wild with the intoxication of vengeance:

"Burn, burn, old bones of Brunhild, the accursed! Burn, burn, old

accursed bones!"

As Loysik caught these words he cried:

"Oh, formidable contrast, formidable like the voice of history! The pyre

of Brunhild--the pyre of Victoria!"

EPILOGUE

Ronan, old little Odille, the Master of the Hounds and the Bishopess

were promenading along the bank of the river Charolles, near the lodge

where the monks of the monastery and the inhabitants of the Valley took

their turns as sentinels near the landing-place of the punt. Since the

revelation of the pretensions of the Bishop of Chalon, besides the

regular sentinel, ten brothers and twenty colonists, all well armed,

took turns in guarding the crossing, and encamped in an improvised

block-house.

"Old Master of the Hounds," Ronan observed sadly, "this is the seventh

day since Loysik left; he is not yet back; I can not overcome my

uneasiness."

"Why, there he is!" cried Odille in great glee. "Do you not see his

white mule? He is riding down the slope of the hill in great hurry; he

is coming down to the river bank; send the punt across for him."

Ronan, the Master of the Hounds, Odille, the Bishopess, all their

children, together with several monks and colonists threw themselves

into the punt. The river was quickly crossed, the landing made, and all

ran to meet the monk. Old Odille and the venerable Bishopess found again

on that day their young limbs of girlhood. Loysik was given hardly time

to alight from his mule. It was a pell-mell of arms, hands, heads around

the respected old man. Whom was he to embrace first? He knew not whose

caresses to respond to. After a while the tempest of tenderness

subsided. Calm was restored. Joy no longer choked their throats.

Conversation started on the way to the monastery, and Loysik narrated to

his friends what he learned concerning the tortures of Queen Brunhild.

He informed them of the confirmation of the charter of Clotaire I by

Clotaire II.

"And lastly," Loysik proceeded to say, "upon my return from Ryonne, I

called upon the Bishop of Chalon. The confirmation of the charter by

Clotaire II was a good deal, but that was not all that was needed. There

were still some formalities to fulfill."

"Brother Loysik," put in Ronan, "we heard from the Bishop of Chalon. It

came about this way: After the departure of Brunhild's men-at-arms, whom

we released upon receipt of the orders you sent us when you escaped

death at the monster's hands, what should the archdeacon do but have the

audacity to return at the head of about fifty of his tonsured

fraternity, together with as many poor slaves of the bishopric. The

slaves and the tonsured friars were armed at haphazard, and bore before

their clerical troop a cross in lieu of a banner; they approached

bravely to declare war to us, if we refused to obey the orders of the

bishop, and to allow him to place our goods into his episcopal pockets."

"Ah! What a fine day we had of it!" said the Master of the Hounds. "The

clerical troop brought along a boat upon their wagons in order to cross

the river. That day I was on guard with about thirty of our men. We saw

the boat launched, and the archdeacon step in with two clerks for

oarsmen. Three men gave us little concern. We allowed them to land. The

archdeacon stepped ashore with casque and cuirass over his priestly

robes, a long sword in his hand.

"'If you will not submit to the orders of the Bishop of Chalon,' the

basilica captain cried out to us in a triumphant voice, 'my troop will

enter the Valley and reduce it to obedience by force of arms. I grant

you a quarter of an hour to surrender yourselves.'

"It does not take me quite so long to make up my mind what to do. So I

answered him back on the spot: 'We have already once set you free with

your skin whole, notwithstanding your insolent language; this time,

however, you will receive a rougher lesson, my basilica captain!'"

"Oh, old Vagre, old Vagre!" said Loysik shaking his head. "I disapprove

of such violent language. Had I been here, you would not have spoiled

your cause in that manner."

"Good father," answered the Master of the Hounds, smiling, as well as

Ronan, "the only thing spoiled was the archdeacon's hide. As soon said

as done. Our good man was seized, his clerical robe raised, and the

straps of our belts administered a thorough discipline to the basilica

captain, all casqued and cuirassed as he was. After that he was

deposited into our punt; my men and I stepped in, crossed the river and

met the clerical army drawn up in line of battle on the opposite bank.

Five or six of the tonsured gentry had armed themselves with bows and

arrows. They shot a volley at us; the aim was taken badly enough; but

accident willed it that they killed one of our men and wounded two. We

were thirty at the most, but entered upon close quarters with the five

score churchmen and poor slaves that they dragged after them. They tried

to withstand us, but we invoked our own special trinity--lance, sword

and axe. It was not long before the redoubtable warriors of the Bishop

of Chalon displayed to us the seams of the backs of their breeches in

full view. The glorious episcopal captain leaped upon his mule and gave

the signal to retreat by himself fleeing at full tilt; his tonsured

brethren followed his example--we buried about a dozen dead, and picked

up a few wounded ones, who were taken care of at the monastery and

afterwards set at large. We have not since heard again from the brave

episcopal army."

"I knew all that, my friends, and I approve your action, except the

discipline that you administered to the archdeacon, that I strongly

condemn," said Loysik; "I had much trouble in calming the anger of the

Bishop of Chalon upon that particular head. For the rest, you deported

yourselves as the occasion demanded. Aye, to defend one's rights and

repel force with force is but just; moreover, a resistance carried to

the point of heroism is often politic. Brunhild recoiled before the idea

of driving you to desperate means. Well, as I was saying to you, I

called upon the bishop on my return from Clotaire's camp. I found him

furious by reason of your resistance, and the insult to the archdeacon.

I told him that I condemned the insult, but that I approved the

legitimate resistance of my brothers of the Valley. 'What is the good of

your resorting to violent means?' I said to him. 'You, a churchman, sent

armed men against monks and colonists, who only ask to be allowed to

live in quiet and by the sweat of their brow, as is their right. Your

men were beaten back, and will be beaten back again if they return to

the charge. I pray you to renounce all claims against the Valley; we, on

our part, will recognize your right to spiritual jurisdiction, but

nothing more.' The bishop answered me furiously: 'I shall then take away

from you the priests that I send you to say mass at the monastery! I

shall excommunicate the Valley!' 'If that be your pleasure, bishop, why,

then we shall be excommunicated; for all that you will see the grass on

our meadows continue to grow green, our woods to set forth fresh

branches, our fields to produce wheat, our vines to yield their juice as

plentifully as ever, our cattle their milk, our bees their honey;

children will continue to be born robust and ruddy as hitherto; your

excommunication can in no manner change things. The only thing that

could happen is that our neighbors will say: "Oh, behold an

excommunicated Valley continuing to be fertile; excommunicated people

remaining in a happy frame of mind and thriving; why, excommunication

must be a farce!" So, then, bishop, the ultimate result would be that a

punishment, that so many poor people imagine to be frightful, will be

thought little or nothing of. Take my advice; give up all thought of

violence and of coercion; respect our goods, our rights, our freedom,

and we, in turn, will respect your spiritual jurisdiction--if not, not;

the misfortunes that your iniquity may lead to will then fall upon your

own head!' To make a long story short, my friends, after protracted

debates, I obtained a new charter from the bishop. I shall read it to

you. Listen carefully. It bears, perhaps, the germ of the

enfranchisement of Gaul."

And Loysik read as follows:

"To the holy and venerable brother in Christ--Loysik, superior of

the monastery of Charolles, built in the valley of that name,

conceded to the said brother Loysik in perpetual donation, by

virtue of a charter granted by the glorious King Clotaire I in the

year 558, and confirmed by the illustrious Clotaire II this year of

613, I, Salvien, Bishop of Chalon. We believe it our duty to insert

on this leaf what we and our successors must do with the aid of our

Lord God:

"1st. The Bishop of Chalon, out of respect for the place, and

without receiving therefor any price whatever, shall bless the

altar of the monastery of Charolles, and, if requested shall grant

the holy chrism every year.

"2nd. Whenever by the will of God a superior may have passed from

the monastery to the bosom of God, the bishop shall, without

receiving any recompense therefor, raise to the rank of superior

the monk who, by virtue of the worthiness of his life, may have

been chosen by the community.

"3rd. Our successors, both bishops and archdeacons, or any other

administrators, or any other dignitaries whatever of the city of

Chalon, shall arrogate no other power over the monastery of

Charolles, either in the ordination of persons, or the goods, or

the farms of the Valley already given by the glorious King Clotaire

I and confirmed by the illustrious King Clotaire II.

"4th. Our successors are forbidden to demand, or extort, under the

title of presents, anything whatever from the monastery or from the

parishioners of the Valley.

"5th. Our successors, unless they shall be requested by the

superior of the community to come and pray at the monastery, shall

never enter the said monastery, nor cross its outer precincts; and

after the celebration of the holy mysteries, and after receiving

short and simple thanks, the bishop shall forthwith return to his

own residence without having to be requested to do so by anyone.

"6th. If any of our successors (which may God forfend) filled with

perfidy, and driven by cupidity, should, in a temerarious spirit,

attempt to violate the matters hereinabove set forth, then, smitten

by divine vengeance, he shall be submitted to anathema.

"And in order that this constitution may ever remain in full force

and vigor, we have willed that it be corroborated by our own

signature.--SALVIEN.

"Done at Chalon, on the 8th day of the calends of November, of the

year of the incarnation, 613."

"Good brother Loysik," said Ronan, "this charter guarantees our rights;

thanks to you for having obtained it; but did we not have our swords to

defend ourselves?"

"Oh, always that old leaven of Vagrery! The swords, always the swords!

Thus the best of things turn to evil through abuse and hot-headedness!

Yes, the sword, resistance, revolt carried to the point of martyrdom

whenever your rights are violated by force! But why shed blood, why

fight when one's right is recognized and guaranteed? Moreover, who tells

you that you would again prevail if again put to it? Who tells you that

the Bishop of Chalon, or his successor, would not, in case you refused

to recognize his spiritual jurisdiction, call some Burgundian seigneur

to his aid? You would know how to die, but why die if one can live free

and peaceful? This charter binds the bishop and his successors to

respect the rights of the monks of the monastery and of the inhabitants

of this valley. It is an additional guaranty. Should it ever be trampled

under foot, then the hour will have sounded for heroic measures. Until

then, my friends, spend your days in the tranquility that this charter

insures to you."

"You are right, Loysik," replied Ronan, "that old leaven of Vagrery is

ever fermenting in our heads. But is not this submission to the

spiritual jurisdiction of the bishop, a submission that the charter

consecrates, is it not a humiliation?"

"Did he not before now exercise more or less spiritual authority over

us? Formally to recognize his spiritual authority is a matter of but

slight importance; to deny it would be to expose ourselves to

interminable troubles. And all to what purpose? Is not the inviolability

of our goods and our property acknowledged?"

"That is so, brother."

"This charter, that, thanks to the firmness with which you resisted his

iniquitous claims, instead of cowardly resigning yourselves to

usurpations--this charter bears in itself the germ of the progressive

enfranchisement of Gaul."

"How it that, Loysik?"

"Sooner or later, what we have done in the Valley of Charolles will be

repeated in other provinces; the old Gallic blood will not forever

remain torpid; some day, waking up at last to their own numbers and

power, our sons will in their turn say to the seigneurs and bishops:

'Recognize our rights and we will recognize the powers that you have

arrogated to yourselves; if not, war--war to the bitter end--war to the

death--war to the point of extermination!"

"And yet, Loysik," cried Ronan, "what a shame, what an iniquity to

recognize that accursed power, born of a bloody and confiscatory

conquest! To recognize the right of theft, of brigandage and of murder!

The oppression of the Gallic race by the bishops and the race of

Franks!"

"Brother, as much as yourself do I deplore these misfortunes. But what

is to be done? Alas, the conquest and its accomplice the Church weigh

down upon Gaul for over a century, and they have cast deep roots. Our

descendants will be compelled to reckon with a power that years have

fortified; they can not choose but recognize that power, while at the

same time wresting from it, by force if necessary, a portion of the

rights that our fathers were deprived of by the conquest. But what does

it matter, my friends! The first step being taken others will certainly

follow; and with each such step, marking its track with its own blood,

our race will draw steadily nearer and nearer to ultimate deliverance.

Aye, the brilliant day will finally dawn, the day that Victoria

foretold, the brilliant day when Gaul, trampling under foot both the

crown of the Frankish Kings and the tiara of the Popes of Rome, will

re-arise proud, radiant and free. Have faith in the future!"

The news of Loysik's return flew from mouth to mouth, and spontaneously

brought all the inhabitants of the Valley to the monastery. The day was

celebrated with cordial joy. It gave new earnest of many years of quiet,

prosperity and freedom to the monks of the monastery and to the

colonists of the Valley of Charolles.

* * * * *

I, Ronan, the son of Karadeucq, finished writing the above narrative two

years after the death of Queen Brunhild, towards the end of the calends

of October of the year 615. Clotaire II continues to reign over Gaul as

the sole ruler, as his great-grandfather Clovis and his grandfather

Clotaire I before him. The murderer of Brunhild's grandchildren does not

belie with his subsequent conduct the sinister character with which he

started his reign. Nevertheless both the royal and the episcopal charter

regarding the colony and the community of Charolles have been respected

down to this date. My brother Loysik, my good old little Odille, the

Bishopess and my friend the Master of the Hounds continue to defy age

with their good health.

I hereby entrust my son's son with the mission of carrying this

narrative to the descendants of Kervan, my father's brother, both of

whom were the sons of Jocelyn. Brittany still remains the only province

of Gaul that preserves its independence. It has repelled the Frankish

troops of Clotaire II as it repelled the attacks of his ancestors.

My grandson will, I hope, arrive without encountering any mishap at the

cradle of our family, situated near the sacred stones of Karnak. I hope

he may successfully accomplish the pious pilgrimage, the same as I did

more than fifty years ago.

I wish to enter upon this leaf a matter of importance to our family,

divided as it now is in two branches, one inhabiting Burgundy, the other

Brittany. In these days of civil wars and general disorder, the peace

and freedom that we now enjoy may at any time be violently assailed. Our

descendants will know how to die rather than relapse into slavery. But

should it happen that unforeseen causes prevent a heroic resolution, if

our family should again be brought under the yoke of servitude and its

members carried away captive, it will be well, as a matter of precaution

against unhappy days, alas! always possible, that the members of our

family should carry some sign of recognition indelibly marked upon an

arm with the point of a needle reddened in the fire and dipped in the

juice of the privet berry. The smart is but slight, and the tender skin

of a child receives and forever keeps the indelible mark. The Gallic

words _Brenn_ and _Karnak_, words that recall the glorious past of our

ancestors, are henceforth to be traced on the right arm of all the

children that may succeed us, and so forward from generation to

generation. Who knows but it may happen that members of our family, now

divided into two branches, may, in the course of the ages cross one

another's path? In that sign they will find the means of recognizing

each other, and render each other mutual assistance.

And now, Oh, our children, leaving the branding needle that I have used

upon my own grandchild as the symbol to accompany this narrative and be

joined to Hena's gold sickle, Guilhern's little brass bell, Sylvest's

iron collar, Genevieve's silver cross, Schanvoch's casque's lark and

Loysik's poniard's hilt, I fervently hope that this narrative may, as

all the preceding ones left by our ancestors, keep alive in your breasts

the flame of an ardent love for your country and for your family. And

may, Oh, my children! the moral conveyed by the adventures of my life,

and of the lives of my father Karadeucq and my brother Loysik never be

lost upon you. Gather from them instruction, example, hope and courage.

THE END.