"The parchments were taken away! Oh! What a misfortune to Gaul!" murmured Victoria. "What mysterious hand is it that can thus penetrate my house? Woe, woe is Gaul! Hesus! Omnipotent god! You call me to the unknown worlds, where, perhaps, we may hover over this world that we leave for yonder ones. Hesus! Am I to leave this earth without the assurance of the welfare of the country I love so much? The future terrifies me! Oh, Omnipotent! Allow your spirit to enlighten me at this supreme moment! Hesus, have you heard me?" added Victoria in a louder voice, half rising on her couch; and with inspired eyes she proceeded: "What do I see? Is this the future that unveils itself before my eyes? Who is that woman--so pale, lying prostrate? Her robe is blood-bespattered. Also her chaplet of oaken leaves has drops of blood; the sword, that her virile hand once held, lies broken at her side. One of those savage Franks, his head ornamented with a crown, holds the noble woman under his knees; he looks with mild and timid mien at a man splendidly arrayed as a pontiff. Hesus! The bleeding woman--is Gaul! The barbarian who kneels down upon her--is a Frankish king! The pontiff--is the Bishop of Rome! Blood flows! a stream of blood! it carries in its course, to the light of the flames of conflagrations, a mass of ruins, thousands of corpses! Oh! the woman--Gaul, I see her again wan, worn, clad in rags, the iron collar of servitude on her neck; she drags herself on her knees; bending under a heavy burden! The Frankish king and the Roman bishop quicken the march of enslaved Gaul with their whips! Another torrent of blood; still the glamour of conflagration. Oh, Hesus! Enough! Enough ruins and massacre! Heaven be praised!" cried Victoria, whose face seemed for a moment to beam with divine splendor. "The noble woman has risen to her feet! Behold her--more beautiful, prouder than ever before! Her head is wreathed in a crown of fresh oak-leaves! In one hand she holds a sheaf of grain, grapes and flowers; in the other a red flag,[4] surmounted by the Gallic cock. Superbly she tramples under foot the fragments of her collar of slavery, the crown of the Frankish kings and that of the Roman pontiffs! Yes, that woman, free at last, stately, glorious and fruitful--she is Gaul! Hesus! Hesus! Be kind to her! Enable her to break the yoke of Kings and Pontiffs! Lead her to freedom, glorious and fruitful without being compelled to reach the goal by wading from century to century through those seas of tears, those seas of blood that affright me!" These last words wholly exhausted Victoria's strength. Still she made one more effort in her divine exaltation. She raised her eyes to heaven, crossed her arms over her breast, heaved a long sigh, and fell back upon her couch. The Mother of the Camps, Victoria the Great, was dead!