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 above the 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?"