"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 goaded him 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.