"Oh, no!" cried the family in chorus and with set determination. "Oh, no! We must have more than one!" "And yet," observed the stranger with a pensive and severe mien, "there is more serious work in hand than to tell and listen to frivolous stories." "I understand not what you mean," said Joel no less taken back than his family; all turned their eyes upon the stranger in silent amazement. "No, you do not understand me," replied the stranger sadly. "Nevertheless, I shall keep my promise--the thing promised is a thing done;" and pointing to Julyan who had remained at the other end of the hall near the oak-covered body of Armel he added: "We must see to it that that young man has something to tell his brother when he joins him beyond." "Proceed, guest, proceed with your story," answered Julyan, without raising his head from his hands; "proceed with your story; I shall not lose a word.... Armel shall hear it just as you tell it." "Two years ago," said the stranger, beginning his story, "while traveling among the Gauls who inhabit the borders of the Rhine, I happened one day to be at Strasburg. I had gone out of the town for a walk along the river bank. Presently I saw a large crowd of people moving in the direction of where I stood. They were following a man and woman, both young and both handsome, who carried on a buckler, that they held by the edges, a little baby not more than three or four months old. The man looked restless and somber; the woman pale and calm. Both stopped at the river's bank, at a spot where the stream runs especially rapid. The crowd also stopped. I drew near and inquired who the man and woman were. 'The man's name is Vindorix, the woman's Albrege; they are man and wife,' was the answer I received. I then saw Vindorix, whose countenance waxed more and more somber, approach his wife and say to her: "'This is the time.' "'Do you wish it?' asked Albrege. 'Do you wish it?' "'Yes,' answered the husband; 'I doubt--I want to be certain.' "'Then, be it so,' said she. "Thereupon, himself taking the buckler where the little child lay, smiling and stretching out its chubby arms to him, Vindorix walked into the river up to his waist, raised the buckler and child for a moment over his head, and looked back a last time towards his wife, as if to threaten her with what he was about to do. With her forehead high and a steady countenance, Albrege remained erect at the river bank, motionless like a statue, her arms crossed upon her bosom. When her husband now turned to her she stretched out her right hand towards him as if to say: "'Do it!' "At that moment a shudder ran over the crowd. Vindorix deposited upon the stream the buckler on which lay the child, and in that frail craft left the infant to the mercy of the eddies." "Oh, the wicked man!" cried Mamm' Margarid deeply moved by the story as were the other hearers. "And his wife!... his wife ... who remained on the bank?--"