"That may happen, Douarnek; but when the chief commands, the soldier obeys. Victoria and her son have ordered me to proceed to the Frankish camp. So thither I go!" "It surely was not out of fear that I spoke, Schanvoch, when I said that those savages would not leave our heads on our shoulders, nor our skins on our bodies. I only spoke from the old habit of sincerity. Well, then, my lads, fall to with a will! Bend to your oars! We have the order from our mother--the Mother of the Camps--and we obey. Forward! even if we are to be flayed alive by the barbarians, a cruel sport that they often indulge in at the expense of their prisoners." "And it is also said," put in the young soldier with a less unperturbed voice than Douarnek's, "it is also said that the priestesses of the nether world who follow the Frankish hordes drop their prisoners into large brass caldrons, and boil them alive with certain magic herbs." "Ha! Ha!" replied Douarnek merrily, "the one of us who may be boiled in that way will at least enjoy the advantage of being the first to taste his own soup--that's some consolation. Forward! Ply your oars! We are obeying orders from the Mother of the Camps." "Oh! We would row straight into an abyss, if Victoria so ordered!" "She has been well named, the Mother of the Camps and of the soldiers. It is a treat to see her visiting the wounded after each battle." "And addressing them with her kind words, that almost make the whole ones regret that they have not been wounded, too." "And then she is so beautiful. Oh, so beautiful!" "Oh! When she rides through the camp, mounted on her white steed, clad in her long black robe, her bold face looking out from under her casque, and yet her eyes shining with so much mildness, and her smile so motherly! It is like a vision!" "It is said for certain that our Victoria knows the future as well as she knows the present." "She must have some charm about her. Who would believe, seeing her, that she is the mother of a son of twenty-two?" "Oh! If the son had only fulfilled the promise that his younger years gave!" "Victorin will always be loved as he has been." "Yes, but it is a great pity!" remarked Douarnek shaking his head sadly, after the other soldiers had thus given vent to their thoughts and feelings. "Yes, it is a great pity! Oh! Victorin is no longer the child of the camps that we, old soldiers with grey moustaches, knew as a baby, rode on our knees, and, down to only recently, looked upon with pride and friendship!" The words of these soldiers struck me with deeper apprehension than Sampso's words did a few hours before. Not only did I often have to defend Victorin with the severe Sampso, but I had latterly noticed in the army a silent feeling of resentment towards my foster-sister's son, who until then, was the idol of the soldiers.