"'Mother, one time you reproached me with my levity and my too strong taste for pleasures--those days are now far behind--I now live in solitude and meditation. My lodging, where formerly the joyful din of song and revelry by torch light used to keep the night astir, is now lonely, silent and somber--like myself. Our scrupulous soldiers feel edified at my conversion, and now no longer reproach me with too much love for joy, wine and women! What more do you want, mother?' "'I want much more,' I replied to him, unable to restrain my tears. 'I want to see you happy as in the past. You suffer, my son; you suffer a pain that you conceal from me. The consciousness of a wise and thoughtful life, as becomes the chief of a great people, imparts to his face a grave yet serene expression. Your face, however, is haggard, sinister, pale, like that of a man distracted and in despair--'" "And what did Victorin say to that?" "Nothing. He relapsed into the gloomy brooding in which I find him so often plunged, and from which he emerges only to cast wandering looks about. I then showed him his child, whom I held in my arms. He took it, kissed it several times with great tenderness, put it back into its cradle, and left abruptly without saying a word. I believe he wished to hide his tears from me. I saw that he wept. Oh! Schanvoch, my heart breaks when I think of the future that seemed to me so rosy for Gaul, for my son and for me!" I sought to console Victoria by joining her in conjecturing the cause of her son's mysterious grief. The hour grew late. I was to travel all that night in order to fulfil my mission as promptly as possible. I left my foster-sister's and proceeded home in order to embrace your mother and you, my son, before starting on my journey. CHAPTER II. THE CATASTROPHE. When I reached home, my son, I found your mother Ellen and her sister Sampso seated near your cradle. The moment Sampso saw me she cried: "You arrive in time, Schanvoch, to help me convince Ellen that her fears are groundless--she is weeping--" "What ails you, Ellen? What afflicts you?" She dropped her head, made no answer, and continued weeping. "She does not dare to admit to you the cause of her affliction, Schanvoch; my sister weeps because you are about to depart." "What?" I asked Ellen in a tone of tender reproach, "you who are always so brave even when I leave for battle, are now timorous and tearful when I am only going on a peaceful journey that will not keep me away more than a few days--a journey into Gaul, where peace reigns! Ellen, your apprehensions are groundless." "That is exactly what I have been repeating to my sister. Your journey does not expose you to any danger; and if you depart to-night it is because the matter is urgent." "Yes, indeed! Why, it must be a positive pleasure to journey in the manner that I am about to do--on a mild summer's night, across the smiling fields of our own beautiful country that is to-day so calm and peaceful!"