"'And you thought yourselves the lords of the land--you, the pale-faced and blue-eyed--you, who lived on milk and cheese, and touched no flesh save in autumn at your hunts--you thought yourselves lords of the mountain and the plain--when we, the red-bearded, came from the sea--we, who loved blood and the din of battle. 'Twas a rude war, ours. It lasted weeks and months; and your old chieftainess, Margareth, of the clan of the Kilberix, shut up in her palisades, surrounded by her dogs and her warriors, defended herself like a she-wolf robbed of her young. {25} But five moons passed, and hunger came; the gates of her stronghold opened, that its defenders might fly; and we, ambushed in the brook, slew them all--all--save the children. She alone defended herself to the last, and I, Luitprand, clove her gray head, and spared her blind father, the oldest among the old, that I might chain him like a dog to my castle gate.' "Then, Hullin," said the old woman, "the fool sang a long ballad--the plaint of the old man chained to his gate. It was sad, sad as the _Miserere_. It chilled our very blood. But he laughed until old Duchene, in a transport of rage, threw himself upon him to strangle him; but the fool is strong, and hurled him back. Then brandishing his sceptre furiously, he shouted: "'To your knees, slaves! to your knees! My armies are advancing. The earth trembles beneath them. Nideck, Haut-Barr, Dagsberg, Turkestein, will again tower above you. To your knees!' "Never did I gaze upon a more fearful figure; but seeing my people about to fall upon him, I interposed in his defence. 'He is but a fool,' I cried. 'Are you not ashamed to mind his words?' This quieted them, but I could not close my eyes the entire night. His story--the song of the old man--rang through my ears, and seemed mingled with the barking of our dogs and the din of combat. Hullin, what think you of it? I cannot banish his threats from my mind!" "I should think," said the sabot-maker, with a look of pity not unmixed with a sort of sorrowful sarcasm--"I should think, Catherine, if I did not know you so well, that you were losing your senses--you and Duchene and Robin and all the rest." "You do not understand these matters," said the old woman in a calm and grave tone; "but were you never troubled by things of like nature?" "Do you mean that you believe this nonsense of Yegof?" "Yes, I believe it." "You believe it! You, Catherine Lefevre! If it was Mother Rochart, I would say nothing; but you--!" He arose as if angry, untied his apron, shrugged his shoulders, and then suddenly, again seating himself, exclaimed: