The Casque's Lark; or, Victoria, the Mother of the Camps. Эжен Сю

say you!"

      "Hena was the daughter of Joel, the brenn of the tribe of Karnak, who died, together with his wife and almost all his family, at the great battle of Vannes – a battle that was fought on land and water nearly three centuries ago. From father to son, I descend from Joel."

      "Do you know, Schanvoch," replied Douarnek, "that even kings would be proud of such an ancestry?"

      "The blood shed for our country and for liberty by all of us Gauls is our national patent of nobility," I said to him. "It is for that reason that our old songs are so popular among us."

      "When one considers," put in one of the younger soldiers, "that it is now more than three hundred years since Hena, the saintly maid, surrendered her own life for the deliverance of the country, and that her name still reaches us!"

      "Although it took the young virgin's voice more than two centuries to rise to the ears of Hesus," replied Douarnek, "her voice did finally reach him, seeing that to-day we can say – Victory to our arms! Victory and freedom!"

      We had now arrived at about the middle of the river, where the stream is very rapid.

      Raising his oar, Douarnek asked me:

      "Shall we enter the strong current? That would be a waste of strength, unless we are either to ascend or descend the river a distance equal to that that now separates us from the shore."

      "We are to cross the Rhine in its full breadth, friend Douarnek."

      "Cross it!" cried the veteran with amazement. "Cross the Rhine! And what for?"

      "To land on the opposite shore."

      "Do you know what that means, Schanvoch? Is not the army of those Frankish bandits, if one can honor those savage hordes with the name of army, encamped on the opposite shore?"

      "It is to those very barbarians that I am bound."

      For a few moments all the four oars rested motionless in their oarlocks. The soldiers looked at one another speechless, as if they could not believe what they heard me say.

      Douarnek was the first to break the silence. With a soldier's unconcern he said to me:

      "Is it, then, a sacrifice that we are to offer to Hesus by delivering our hides to those hide-tanners? If such be the orders, forward! Bend to your oars, my lads!"

      "Have you forgotten, Douarnek, that we have a truce of eight days with the Franks?"

      "There is no such thing as a truce to those brigands."

      "As you will notice, I have made the signal of peace by ornamenting the prow of our bark with green boughs. I shall proceed alone into the enemy's camp, with an oak branch in my hand."

      "And they will slay you despite all your oak branches, as they have slain other envoys during previous truces."

      "That may happen, Douarnek; but when the chief commands, the soldier obeys. Victoria and her son have ordered me to proceed to the Frankish camp. So thither I go!"

      "It surely was not out of fear that I spoke, Schanvoch, when I said that those savages would not leave our heads on our shoulders, nor our skins on our bodies. I only spoke from the old habit of sincerity. Well, then, my lads, fall to with a will! Bend to your oars! We have the order from our mother – the Mother of the Camps – and we obey. Forward! even if we are to be flayed alive by the barbarians, a cruel sport that they often indulge in at the expense of their prisoners."

      "And it is also said," put in the young soldier with a less unperturbed voice than Douarnek's, "it is also said that the priestesses of the nether world who follow the Frankish hordes drop their prisoners into large brass caldrons, and boil them alive with certain magic herbs."

      "Ha! Ha!" replied Douarnek merrily, "the one of us who may be boiled in that way will at least enjoy the advantage of being the first to taste his own soup – that's some consolation. Forward! Ply your oars! We are obeying orders from the Mother of the Camps."

      "Oh! We would row straight into an abyss, if Victoria so ordered!"

      "She has been well named, the Mother of the Camps and of the soldiers. It is a treat to see her visiting the wounded after each battle."

      "And addressing them with her kind words, that almost make the whole ones regret that they have not been wounded, too."

      "And then she is so beautiful. Oh, so beautiful!"

      "Oh! When she rides through the camp, mounted on her white steed, clad in her long black robe, her bold face looking out from under her casque, and yet her eyes shining with so much mildness, and her smile so motherly! It is like a vision!"

      "It is said for certain that our Victoria knows the future as well as she knows the present."

      "She must have some charm about her. Who would believe, seeing her, that she is the mother of a son of twenty-two?"

      "Oh! If the son had only fulfilled the promise that his younger years gave!"

      "Victorin will always be loved as he has been."

      "Yes, but it is a great pity!" remarked Douarnek shaking his head sadly, after the other soldiers had thus given vent to their thoughts and feelings. "Yes, it is a great pity! Oh! Victorin is no longer the child of the camps that we, old soldiers with grey moustaches, knew as a baby, rode on our knees, and, down to only recently, looked upon with pride and friendship!"

      The words of these soldiers struck me with deeper apprehension than Sampso's words did a few hours before. Not only did I often have to defend Victorin with the severe Sampso, but I had latterly noticed in the army a silent feeling of resentment towards my foster-sister's son, who until then, was the idol of the soldiers.

      "What have you to reproach Victorin with?" I asked Douarnek and his companions. "Is he not brave among the bravest? Have you not watched his conduct in war?"

      "Oh! If a battle is on, he fights bravely, as bravely as yourself, Schanvoch, when you are at his side, on your large bay horse, and more intent upon defending the son of your foster-sister than upon defending yourself. 'Your scars would declare it, if they could speak through the mouths of your wounds,' as our old proverb says!"

      "I fight as a soldier; Victorin fights as a captain. And has not that young captain of only twenty-two years already won five great battles against the Germans and the Franks?"

      "His mother, well named Victoria, must have contributed with her counsel towards his victories. He confers with her upon his plans of campaign. But, anyhow, it is true, Victorin is a brave soldier and good captain."

      "And is not his purse open to all, so long as there is anything in it? Do you know of any invalid who ever vainly applied to him?"

      "Victorin is generous – that also is true."

      "Is he not the friend and comrade of the soldiers? Is he ever haughty?"

      "No, he is a good comrade, and always cheerful. Besides, what should he be proud about? Are not his father, his glorious mother and himself from the Gallic plebs, like the rest of us?"

      "Do you not know, Douarnek, that often it happens that the proudest people are the very ones who have risen from the lowest ranks?"

      "Victorin is not proud!"

      "Does he not, during war, sleep unsheltered with his head upon the saddle of his horse, like the rest of us horsemen?"

      "Brought up by so virile a mother as his, he was bound to grow up a rough soldier, as he is."

      "Are you not aware that in council he displays a maturity of judgment that many men of our age do not possess? In short, is it not his bravery, his kindness, his good judgment, his rare military qualities as a soldier and captain that caused him to be acclaimed general by the army, and one of the two Chiefs of Gaul?"

      "Yes, but in electing him, all of us knew that his mother Victoria would always be near him, guiding him, instructing him, schooling him in the art of governing men, without neglecting, worthy matron that she is, to sew her linen near the cradle of her grandson, as is her thrifty habit."

      "No one knows better than I how precious the advices