"It was about three years ago--agents of the king, they were called _antrustions_, collected the revenues of the royal domain. They were numerous, well armed, and traveled only by day. We were waiting for the end of their reaping to gather in our harvest. One night they halted at Sifour, a little unprotected village. The opportunity tempted my father. We sallied forth believing that we would take the Franks by surprise. They were on their guard. After a bloody encounter we had to flee before the Frankish lances that followed us in hot pursuit. I was separated from my father during that midnight affray. Was he killed or was he merely wounded and taken prisoner I do not know. All my efforts to ascertain his fate have been vain. Since then my companions elected me their chief. You wanted to know my history--I have told it to you. You now know it." "You have told me more than you think for. Your father's name was Karadeucq." "How do you know that?" "The name of your father's father was Jocelyn. If he still lives in Britanny with his elder son Kervan and his daughter Roselyk, he must be inhabiting a house near the sacred stones of Karnak--" "Who told you--" "One of your ancestors was named Joel; he was the brenn of the tribe of Karnak. Hena, the saint sung about in the druid chant, was the daughter of Joel, whose family traces its origin back to the Gallic brenn, whom the Romans called Brennus, and who, nearly eight hundred years ago, made them pay ransom for Rome." "Who are you that you know the history of my family so accurately?" "That chant of the slaves in revolt against the Romans--'Flow, flow, thou blood of the captive! Drop, drop, thou dew of gore!'--was sung by one of your ancestors named Sylvest, who was cast to the wild beasts in the circus of Orange. And I imagine that your father taught you another thrilling chant, one sung two hundred and odd years ago, on the occasion of one of the great battles fought on the Rhine against the Franks, and won by Victorin, the son of Victoria, the Mother of the Camps--" "You are right--often did my father sing that chant to me. It began this wise: "'This morning we said: How many are there of these barbarous hordes? How many are there of these Franks?'" "And it closed this wise," replied the monk: "'This evening we say: How many were there of these barbarous hordes? This evening we say: How many were there of these Franks?'" "Schanvoch, another of your ancestors, a brave soldier and foster-brother of Victoria the Great, sang that song--" "Yes, Gaul, on that day proud, free and triumphant, had just driven the barbarians from both banks of the Rhine, while, to-day--but let us drop that topic, monk; if those days were glorious, the present ones seem to me all the more horrible. Oh! blameworthy was the credulity of our fathers, martyrs to this new religion--"