"Do you not hate your master, Bishop Cautin, and the whole seigniory?" "One time I was young, rich and happy. The Franks invaded Touraine, my native country. They slew my wife after violating her; they dashed my little girl's head against the wall; they pillaged my house; they sold me into slavery, and from master to master, I have finally fallen into the hands of Bishop Cautin. So you see, I have every reason to execrate the Franks; but worse than them, if possible, I execrate the Gallic bishops, who hold us Gauls in bondage, and sanctify the crime of our foreign oppressors. I would hang them all if I could!" "Who goes there?" cried Ronan noticing a human form on the outside, creeping on its knees and approaching the door of the chapel in that posture. "Who goes there?" "I, Felibien, ecclesiastical slave of our holy bishop." "Poor man! Why do you crawl on your knees in that style?" "It is in obedience to a vow that I took. I come on my knees--over the stones of the road--to pray to St. Loup, the great St. Loup, to whom this chapel is dedicated. I come at night so that I may be back at dawn when I must start to work. My hut is far from here." "But why do you inflict such a punishment upon yourself, brother? Is it not hard enough to have to rise with the sun, and to lie down upon straw at night worn out with fatigue?" "I come upon my knees to pray St. Loup, the great St. Loup, to request the Lord to grant a long and happy life to our seigneur, the bishop." "To pray for a long and happy life for your master is to pray for a lengthening of the whip of the superintendents who flay your back." "Blessed be their blows! The more we suffer here below, all the happier will we be in paradise!" "But the wheat that you sow is eaten by your bishop; the wine that you press is drunk by him; the cloth that you weave, clothes him--and you remain wan, hungry, in rags!" "I would be willing to feed on the offal of swine, clothe myself in thorns that tear my skin to the veins--my happiness will be all the greater in paradise!" "The Lord created the grain, the grapes, the honey, the fruits, the creamy milk, the soft fleece of the sheep--was all that done in order that any of His creatures should live on ordure and dress in thorns? Answer me, my poor brother." "You are an impious fellow!" "Alas! Almost all the slaves are, like this unhappy fellow, steeped in the abjectest besotment--the evil spreads by the day--it is done for old Gaul--" "If so, let us sing the refrain of the Vagres: "The Franks call us 'Wand'ring Men,' 'Wolves,' 'Wolves' Heads'--Let us live like wolves! Let us live in joy! In summer under the green foliage, in winter in caverns warm!" "Come, Simon, the bishop's miracle must be over by this time." "Yes--I shall precede you alone, a little way in this underground passage; should I see light I shall return and notify you." "But what about that slave, who is mumbling his prayers on his knees to the great St. Loup?"