"Ronan, your brother was born thirty years ago--that is my age. Your brother's name is Loysik--that is my name." "Loysik! My brother!" "It is I. Did you not surmise as much?" "Joy of heavens! You are my brother!" Long did the hermit and the Vagre remain in close embrace. After the first ebullition of their tender joy, Ronan said to Loysik: "And whatever became of our father?" "I know not his fate--but let us trust in the goodness of God--let us not despair of some day finding him again--" "And was it your brother's instinct that led you to accompany us?" "I did not suspect you of being my brother until I noticed the degree to which you were moved by the chant of Hena. When you told me she was one of your ancestresses, I no longer entertained any doubt but that we were either brothers or close relatives. The account of your life proved to me that we were brothers." "But why, then, did you follow us in Vagrery?" "Did you not hear my answer to Bishop Cautin: 'It is not the well but the sick who stand in need of the physician?'" "Would you blame me for being a Vagre, and would you blame our father for having been a Bagauder?" "No less than you, Ronan, do I hold slavery and conquest in horror, seeing that Gaul, formerly powerful and teeming with happiness, is covered with ruins and brambles since the Frankish invasion. Proprietors, colonists, husbandmen have all fled before the barbarians who reduce them to slavery, or cause them to die of hunger by reason of the frightful floods of famine that have followed in the wake of the invading army. Driven by despair large numbers of those unhappy people run the Vagrery like yourself. Only slaves are seen here and there cultivating the lands of the Church and of the seigneurs, and the poor wretches bend under the weight of toil; not infrequently die of hunger or of maltreatment. The cities, once so rich, so flourishing by their commerce, are to-day ruined, almost depopulated, but being at least defended by their walls, they offer some measure of security to their inhabitants; and yet, the ceaseless civil wars between the sons of Clovis at times deliver even these places to the torch of the incendiary, to pillage and to massacre. During the fitful lulls of these feuds, the inhabitants hardly dare to leave their walls; the roads, infested with armed bands, render communication and traffic impossible. But too often the horrors of famine have decimated the population of whole cities. Alas! Such is the sad plight of our country." "Aye, that is what the Frankish conquest has done for Gaul. She can no longer be free--let her disappear from the world burying the conquerors and the conquered alike under her ruins!"