The boisterous mirthfulness of the leudes is at its height. Neroweg wishes to speak. Three times he strikes on the table with the handle of his _scramasax_, the name given by the barbarians to the knife used at table, and habitually worn at the warrior's belt. Silence, or some degree of silence ensues. The count is to speak. With both his elbows leaning upon the table, he strokes and restrokes his long, reddish, greasy and wine-soaked moustache between his thumb and index. The posture and gesture always announces with him some scheme of vicious cruelty. The leudes are aware of this and greet his words in advance with gross and confident laughter. Without saying a word, Neroweg points out to his peers one of the slaves who, motionless, has been holding up a torch at the banquet. The fellow is a poor old man, wrinkled and haggard; his hair and beard are white and long; for only clothing he wears a tattered blouse and hose which expose his skin, yellow and tanned like parchment; his hose do not reach his bony knees; his bare and lank legs, scarred by the brambles among which he is forced to work, seem hardly able to support him. Compelled, like the rest of his torch-bearing companions, to hold up the light with outstretched arm, and the whip of the Frankish overseer being ever ready to enforce the order with merciless cruelty, he felt his lean arm grow numb, weaken and tremble despite all he could do to prevent it. After pointing at the slave, Neroweg turned to his leudes with cruel hilarity and said: "Hi--hi--hi--we shall now have a good laugh. You old toothless dog, why do you not hold the candle straight?" "Seigneur, I am very old--my arm grows tired despite myself." "So, then, you are tired?" "Alas! Yes, seigneur!" "Yet you know that he who does not hold up his torch straight is regaled with fifty lashes!" "Seigneur, my strength fails me!" "Do you say so?" "Yes, yes, seigneur--my fingers are numb--they can no longer hold the torch--it will soon fall down--" "Poor old man--come, put out your torch." "Thanks, thanks, seigneur!" "Wait a moment. What are you doing?" "I am going to blow out the torch--as you ordered me--" "Oh, I did not mean it in that way." And ever caressing his moustache, Neroweg cast ironical and cruel glances at his leudes. "Seigneur, how will you have me extinguish my torch?" "I wish you to put it out between your knees." The Frankish leudes received the comical idea of the count with loud applause and wild yells and laughter. The old Gaul trembled from head to foot, looked imploringly at Neroweg, lowered his head and murmured: "Seigneur, my knees are bare, the torch will burn me--" "Ho! You old brute! Do you imagine I would order you to extinguish the torch between your knees if they were covered with oxhide or jambards of iron?" "Seigneur, good seigneur, it will smart me terribly; for pity's sake, do not impose such a torment upon me." "Bother! Your knees are bones!"