"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—becausethe 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 thecouncillor 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 goodof 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 outof her sublime modesty. It is now more than four centuries ago since that bronze was cast in the effigy ofVictoria, 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!"
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 abovethe 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 littlefellow! 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 ablow 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 angerthan 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 hisknife 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, itwould 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 theirhands: "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!"
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-blowsgiven 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 goadedhim 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? Wouldwe, 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!"
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 takenthree 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 ofthe 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 confirma 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: