The Poniard's Hilt Part 23

The boisterous mirthfulness of the leudes is at its height. Neroweg wishes to speak. Three times he strikes on the table with the handle of his _scramasax_, the name given by the barbarians to the knife used at table, and habitually worn at the warrior's belt. Silence, or some degree of silence ensues. The count is to speak. With both his elbows leaning upon the table, he strokes and restrokes his long, reddish, greasy and wine-soaked moustache between his thumb and index. The posture and gesture always announces with him some scheme of vicious cruelty. The leudes are aware of this and greet his words in advance with gross and confident laughter. Without saying a word, Neroweg points out to his peers one of the slaves who, motionless, has been holding up a torch at the banquet. The fellow is a poor old man, wrinkled and haggard; his hair and beard are white and long; for only clothing he wears a tattered blouse and hose which expose his skin, yellow and tanned like parchment; his hose do not reach his bony knees; his bare and lank legs, scarred by the brambles among which he is forced to work, seem hardly able to support him. Compelled, like the rest of his torch-bearing companions, to hold up the light with outstretched arm, and the whip of the Frankish overseer being ever ready to enforce the order with merciless cruelty, he felt his lean arm grow numb, weaken and tremble despite all he could do to prevent it.

After pointing at the slave, Neroweg turned to his leudes with cruel hilarity and said:

"Hi--hi--hi--we shall now have a good laugh. You old toothless dog, why do you not hold the candle straight?"

"Seigneur, I am very old--my arm grows tired despite myself."

"So, then, you are tired?"

"Alas! Yes, seigneur!"

"Yet you know that he who does not hold up his torch straight is regaled with fifty lashes!"

"Seigneur, my strength fails me!"

"Do you say so?"

"Yes, yes, seigneur--my fingers are numb--they can no longer hold the torch--it will soon fall down--"

"Poor old man--come, put out your torch."

"Thanks, thanks, seigneur!"

"Wait a moment. What are you doing?"

"I am going to blow out the torch--as you ordered me--"

"Oh, I did not mean it in that way."

And ever caressing his moustache, Neroweg cast ironical and cruel glances at his leudes.

"Seigneur, how will you have me extinguish my torch?"

"I wish you to put it out between your knees."

The Frankish leudes received the comical idea of the count with loud applause and wild yells and laughter. The old Gaul trembled from head to foot, looked imploringly at Neroweg, lowered his head and murmured:

"Seigneur, my knees are bare, the torch will burn me--"

"Ho! You old brute! Do you imagine I would order you to extinguish the torch between your knees if they were covered with oxhide or jambards of iron?"

"Seigneur, good seigneur, it will smart me terribly; for pity's sake, do not impose such a torment upon me."

"Bother! Your knees are bones!"

The bright sally on the part of the count redoubled the laughter and hilarity of the leudes.

"It is true I am only skin and bones," answered the old man seeking to soften his master's heart; "I am quite weak--please spare me the pain, my good seigneur."

"Listen--if you do not on the spot extinguish your torch between your knees, I shall have my men seize you and extinguish the torch in your throat--take your choice, quickly!"

A fresh explosion of hilarity proved to the old Gaul that he had no mercy to expect from the Franks. He looked down weeping upon his frail and tremulous legs, and yielding to one last ray of hope he addressed the clerk in suppliant accents:

"My good father in G.o.d--in the name of charity--do intercede in my behalf with my good seigneur count!"

"Seigneur, I ask grace for the poor old man."

"Clerk! Does the slave belong to me--yes or not? Am I his master--yes or not?"

"He belongs to you, n.o.ble seigneur."

"Can I dispose of my slave at my pleasure, and chastise him as I may choose?"

"My n.o.ble seigneur, it is your right."

"Very well, then! I want him to extinguish the torch between his knees; if not, by the great St. Martin! I shall extinguish it myself in his throat!"

"Oh, my good father in G.o.d--do intercede again for me! I beg you!"

"My good son," said the clerk with unction to the slave, "we must accept with resignation the trials that heaven sends us."

"Will you have done!" cried the count again smiting the table with the handle of his _scramasax_. "We have had words enough--take your choice--either your knees or your throat for an extinguisher! Do you hesitate--"

"No, no, seigneur, I obey--"

And it was a very comical scene for the Franks. By the faith of a Vagre, there was truly cause for laughter. With tears rolling down his cheeks, the poor old Gaul first approached the burning torch to his trembling knees; the instant the flame touched him he quickly withdrew it again.

But the count, who, with both his hands upon his paunch swollen with food and drink, was roaring with laughter and, like the rest of the leudes, shook with mirth, again smote the table violently with the handle of his _scramasax_. The slave understood the signal. With trembling hands he again drew the torch close to his icy knees, and a.s.sayed to put a quick end to the torture; he parted his legs a little and then brought them twice quickly and convulsively together so as to extinguish the flame between his knees. He succeeded in this, but not without emitting a piercing cry of pain; such was the pang he suffered that the old man fell over upon his back and lay on the floor deprived of consciousness.

"I smell grilled dog!" said the count dilating his nostrils like a beast of prey. The odor of burnt human flesh doubtlessly acted as an appetizer upon him, and he cried as if struck by a new idea: "My valiant leudes, the burg's prison is well stocked, I know. We have in the _ergastula_, loaded with chains, first of all, Ronan the Vagre and the hermit-laborer; they are now both nearly healed of their wounds; then we have the little blonde slave, she is not yet well, she still seems to be at death's door; besides that, we have the handsome bishopess--she is not wounded but is possessed of the devil--".

"But, count," spoke up one of the leudes, "what do you propose to do with those cursed Vagres, the little Vagress and the handsome witch whom we brought prisoners with us from the combat at the fastnesses of Allange? What manner of torture will you inflict upon them?"

"Oh! how I regret that they have not a thousand members to burn and hack to pieces in order to expiate the death of our companions in arms whom they killed in the fastness!"

"Will you have them tried here, count?"

"No--no--they shall be tried at Clermont. Bishop Cautin insists upon his jurisdiction over them. Oh! By the Terrible Eagle, my ancestor who skinned his prisoners alive, the Vagre, the hermit-laborer and the witch shall be submitted to frightful tortures. But they do not concern us this evening. When I mentioned to you the prisoners in the _ergastula_, my good leudes, what I meant to say was that we have there one of my domestic slaves who is charged with larceny by the cook slave. The latter a.s.serts, the former denies the theft. Which of the two lies? In order to ascertain the truth, let us put the two cubs to the cold water and hot iron trials, according to the law of our Salic Franks."

CHAPTER II.

THE MAHL.

The tribunal a.s.sembles. The count presides over the _mahl_ on his seat; seven leudes, ranked on benches on either side, a.s.sist him. The torch-bearing slaves stand behind the judges. The judgment seat is well lighted, while the rear of the hall, where the other leudes and warriors of the burg are grouped, remains in semi-obscurity, brightened, however, from time to time by the reflexion of the fire in the large stove which the blacksmith of the stables has lighted and blows into flame. The nine plow-shares are being heated red in the stove. Before the stove, and even with the ground, is the wide and deep tank filled with water. The slave charged with larceny stands at the foot of the tribunal with his arms tied behind his back. He is a young man and looks frightened at the judges. The accuser, a man of ripe age, contemplates the tribunal confidently. Agreeable to the usage in such instances, six other slaves surround the two men. They are chosen by the accuser and the accused to affirm under oath what they believe to be the truth. They are called _conjurators_.

"To the trial! To the trial!" cries the count. "Mayor, inform the slave anew of the charge against him."