sections; it writhes convulsively at the bottom of the ravine, while from the summits on either side, now crowned with a swarm of Bretons, who kept themselves until then concealed, a hailstorm of arrows, boar-spears and stones rains down upon the bewildered, panic-stricken and impotent Frankish cohorts, caught and hemmed in between the two granite walls, from whose tops our men deal prompt and unavoidable death to their invaders. Vortigern is in command of these resolute and watchful Bretons. His bow in one hand, his quiver by his side, not one of his bolts misses its mark. The butchery is frightful! The carnage superb! The Gallic war-songs and cries of triumph from above answer the imprecations of the Franks from below. A frightful butchery! A superb carnage! It lasts as long as our men have a stone to throw, a bolt or a spear to hurl at the foe. His own, and the munitions of his companions being exhausted, Vortigern cries down from the summit of the rocks to the frantic Franks below, accompanying the cry with a gesture of defiance: "We will thus defend our soil, inch by inch; every step you take will be marked by your blood or our own; all our tribes are not like those of Kervor!" Saying this, Vortigern struck up the martial song of his ancestor Schanvoch: "This morning we asked: 'How many are there of these Franks? How many are there of these barbarians?' This evening we say: 'How many were there of these Franks? How many were there of these barbarians?'"[E] CHAPTER V. THE MARSH OF PEULVEN.