To Baithene’s surprise and pleasure, he found himself, as he followed his purchaser through the lanes and streets of the little Armorican seaport at the mouth of the Loire, frequently catching words and sounds familiar to him. The people were Celts, Bretons, and though their dialect differed from that of the O’Neills, he understood enough to know what they were talking about. In the course of the morning’s walk he was able to be of much use to his master by interpreting for him in the bargains which he was always endeavouring to make for skins, garments, gold and silver vessels and ornaments, or viands for the table, always apparently himself on the verge of bankruptcy, yet always contriving by some means to secure the best to be had. Baithene did not enjoy this haggling, and not seldom threw in a word in aid of the seller, but nevertheless his pleasant face and frank good-humour assisted the old man, so that they became quite confidential and friendly. In the course of these commercial arrangements which absorbed his companion, Baithene became gradually aware of a weight of terror and apprehension brooding like a thunder-cloud over the town. “Let the old fellow have it for what he will,” one of the sellers grumbled, as he took the coin for a splendid purple-bordered mantle which must have belonged to some Roman of rank, “coin is easier to carry than raiment, and we are all on the march. Who knows how soon these savage Huns will be upon us!” “At all events,” muttered another dressed like a peasant, “Roman purple will not be worth anything much longer here. It is better to be dashed about by these wild Huns, than to be ground down steadily under the heavy chariot-wheels of the Roman tax-gatherers. We, ‘the Bagaudæ,’[1] the mob, as the proud patricians call us, shall have our revenge at last.” “What do you say?” replied an armed Goth, angrily. “Do you mean that the reports are true that the Bagaudæ, the rebel peasants, called in the Huns?” “How do I know?” was the reply. “Eudoxius, the good Roman physician, certainly had pity on our wrongs, and went, it is said, to Attila’s camp. And Attila is here.” “Here!” was the retort; “scarcely here yet, nor likely to be, if Aetius the great General, and Theodoric the Ostrogoth, make up their quarrel and fight the Huns.” “I know little,” was the sullen answer; “but what does it matter to us? Whoever wins, in all the battles we are still the mob, to die and starve, and be driven and beaten. One thing, however,” he concluded, “we will not do; we will not fight for any of them.”