The Poniard's Hilt Part 40

A flash of joy lighted the Frank's eyes, and he answered with a firm voice: "Kill me!"

"My Vagres, this man belongs to me--it is my part of the booty."

"He is yours, old Karadeucq--you may dispose of him at your pleasure.

Say the word and we will strike him down dead."

"I wish him to be unbound; I wish him to have the full use of his limbs--but make a strong circle around us two, so that he can not run away."

"Here we are--a strong circle of swords' points, axes, pikes and sharp scythes--he will not be able to break through."

"A priest!" suddenly cried the count in accents of anguish. "I do not wish to die without the a.s.sistance of a priest! Will you a.s.sist me, hermit-laborer?"

"Father," cried Loysik, "do not kill this man in that manner!"

"I do not ask you for my life, Gallic dogs! Slaves! But I do not wish to go to h.e.l.l! I ask the absolution of a priest!"

"Take this axe, Count Neroweg; we shall be equally armed; the combat between us is to be to the death."

"Father, in the name of your two sons, whom you have just saved, desist from this combat."

"My sons, this axe does not weigh heavy in my hands--I shall extinguish in this Frank the stock of the Nerowegs."

"I, a man of an ill.u.s.trious family, do battle with a beggar, a Vagre, a revolted slave! No! I shall not bestow such an honor upon you, b.a.s.t.a.r.d dog--you may slay me."

"Seize him, and shave his head smooth like a slave. Shame upon the coward!"

"I, shaved like a vile slave! I, undergo such an outrage! I prefer to do battle with you, vile bandit; give me the axe!"

"Here it is, count. And you, my brave Vagres, widen the circle--and long live Gaul!"

Neroweg precipitated himself upon the Vagre; the combat was engaged; it was frightful, stubborn. Loysik, Ronan, little Odille and the bishopess followed trembling and with anxious eyes the events of the struggle. It did not last long. Karadeucq spoke truly. The axe did not weigh heavy in his vigorous hand; it swung in the air and fell with a crash upon the forehead of Neroweg, who rolled down upon the gra.s.s with his skull cleaved in twain.

"Die!" cried Karadeucq with a triumphant air. "The stock of the Terrible Eagle will no longer pursue the stock of Joel!"

"You lie, Gallic dog! My stock is not extinct. I have a son of my second wife at Soissons--and my present wife, G.o.degisele, is with child. My stock will live!"

And with a feeble voice, the dying man added:

"Hermit laborer, give me paradise--my good Bishop Cautin, have pity upon me! Oh, I am going to h.e.l.l! to h.e.l.l! the demons!"

And Neroweg expired, his face contracted in diabolical terror.

Missing the count, his leudes must have concluded that he lay buried under the smoldering ruins; some feared that the revolted slaves captured and took him with them. If they searched for him, they must have found the count's body at the outskirts of the forest, with his skull cleaved in twain by an axe blow, and stretched out at the foot of a tree, with the outward bark ripped off and on the bare trunk of which the following words were engraved with the point of a dagger:

"_Karadeucq, the Vagre, a descendant of the Gaul Joel, the brenn of the tribe of Karnak, killed this Frankish count, a descendant of Neroweg, the Terrible Eagle. Long live Gaul._"

PART IV.

GHILDE.

CHAPTER I.

AT THE HEARTH OF JOEL.

Two years have pa.s.sed since the death of Count Neroweg. We are now in winter; the wind moans, the snow falls. It was on the day following a similar night that, nearly fifty years ago, Karadeucq, the grandson of old Araim left the paternal roof, under which the following narrative takes place, in order to run the Bagaudy, seduced thereto by a peddler's story.

Old Araim died long ago, never ceasing to sorrow over the loss of Karadeucq, his pet. Jocelyn and Madalen, Karadeucq's father and mother also are dead. His elder brother Kervan and his sweet sister Roselyk still live and inhabit the same homestead situated near the sacred stones of Karnak. Kervan is over sixty years of age; he married late; his son, now fifteen years of age, is called Yvon. The blonde Roselyk, sister of Kervan, is nearly as old as her brother; her hair has turned white; she has remained single and lives with her brother and his wife Martha.

It is night; out of doors the wind blows and the snow falls.

Kervan, his sister, his wife, his son and several of their relatives, who cultivate with them the identical fields that more than six hundred years ago Joel cultivated with his family, are engaged near the fireplace at several household tasks, the favorite pastimes during the long nights of winter. A violent gust of wind blows open the door and several windows. Kervan remarks to his sister:

"Good Roselyk, it was on such a night as this, many long years ago, that a cursed peddler came to our door. Do you remember the incident?"

"Alas, I do! The next morning our poor brother Karadeucq left us forever. His disappearance gave so much pain to our grandfather Araim that he died of a broken heart, and shortly after we lost our mother, who was almost crazed with grief. Our father Jocelyn alone withstood the bereavement. Oh, our brother Karadeucq was but too heavily punished for wishing to see the Korrigans!"

"The Korrigans, aunt Roselyk!" cried Yvon, Kervan's son. "The little fairies of olden times, of which good old Gildas, the shearer of the sheep, often talks? They have not been seen in this country for a long time, neither the Korrigans nor the other little dwarfs, called Dus."

"Fortunately, my boy, the country is now free from those evil sprites--but for them your uncle Karadeucq might now be in our midst by the fireplace."

"And did you never hear from him, father?"

"Never, my son! He surely died in one of those civil wars, those disasters that continue to rend old Gaul under the reign of the descendants of Clovis."

"May our Brittany be ever spared the ills that so cruelly afflict the other provinces!"

"Our old Armorica has until now been able to preserve her independence and repel all attempts at invasion from the Franks. Why should we be any less able to hold our own in the future? The chiefs of our tribes, whom we choose ourselves, are brave. The chief of the chiefs whom these have chosen, old Kando, and who keeps watch at our frontiers, is an intrepid and experienced man. Did we not triumphantly repel all the attacks of the Franks until now?"

"And already three times have you been called to take up arms, Kervan, and were forced to leave me, together with your sister Roselyk and our son Yvon, in mortal fear," exclaimed Martha, Kervan's wife.

"Come, come, you poor timid Gallic woman. Remember our family legends--Margarid, Joel's wife; Meroe, the wife of Albinik the mariner; Ellen, the wife of Schanvoch--did they ever exhibit such weakness when their husbands took the field to fight for the freedom of Gaul?"

"Alas, no! And Margarid as well as Meroe met death on the battlefield, together with their husbands."

"While I have been only once wounded in battle against the accursed Franks, whom we cut to pieces on our frontier."

"But you seem, brother, to forget all about the danger that you ran during the last vintage. That was an odd vintage! It had to be garnered with the sword on the side and the axe ready in hand."

"Nonsense! Those were mere pleasure parties. We sallied forth gaily, and went beyond our own borders to harvest the crops of grapes that the Franks make their slaves raise in the region of Nantes. By the beard of Joel! He would have laughed a hearty laugh at the sight of our troops recrossing our frontier gaily escorting our large carts full of red grapes! What a pleasing sight! The yokes of our oxen, the bridles of the horses and even the iron of our lances were festooned with green vine leaves. And we marched to the rhythmic measure of the chant that we sang in chorus:

"'The Franks, they shall not drink it, This wine of our old Gaul-- No, the Franks, they shall not drink it!

We make our vintage, sword and pruning-hook in hand.