"My dear wife," said Yvon to Marceline the first morning that they awoke in their new forest home, "What were the motives of my pretended idiocy?--I was brought up by my father in the hatred of kings. My grandfather Guyrion, slaughtered in a popular uprising, had taught my father to read and write, so that he might continue the chronicle of our family. He preserved the account left by his grandfather Eidiol, the dean of the skippers of Paris, together with an iron arrow-head, the emblem attached to the account. We do not know whatever became of the branch of our family that lived in Britanny near the sacred stones of Karnak. It has the previous chronicles and relics that our ancestors recorded and gathered from generation to generation since the days of Joel, at the time of the Roman invasion of Gaul by Julius Caesar. My grandfather and my father wrote nothing on their obscure lives. But in the profound solitude where we lived, of an evening, after a day spent hunting or in the field, my father would narrate to me what my grandfather Guyrion had told him concerning the adventures of the descendants of Joel. Guyrion received these traditions from Eidiol, who received them from his grandfather, a resident of Britanny, before the separation of the grandchildren of Vortigern. I was barely eighteen years old when my father died. He made me promise him to record the experience of my life should I witness any important event. To that end he handed me the scroll of parchment written by Eidiol and the iron arrow-head taken from the wound of Paelo, the pirate. I carefully put these cherished mementos of the past in the pocket of my hose. That evening I closed my father's eyes. Early next morning I dug his grave near his hut and buried him. His bow, his arrows, a few articles of dress, his pallet, his trunk, his porridge-pot--everything was a fixture of and belonged to the royal domain. The serf can own nothing. Nevertheless I cogitated how to take possession of the bow, arrows and a bag of chestnuts that was left, determined to roam over the woods in freedom, when a singular accident upturned my projects. I had lain down upon the grass in the thick of a copse near our hut, when suddenly I heard the steps of two riders and saw that they were men of distinguished appearance. They were promenading in the forest. They alighted from their richly caparisoned horses, held them by the bridle, and walked slowly. One of them said to the other: 'King Lothaire was poisoned last year by his wife Imma and her lover, the archbishop of Laon ... but there is Louis left, Lothaire's son ... Louis the Do-nothing.' 'And if this Louis were to die, would his uncle, the Duke of Lorraine, to whom the crown would then revert by right, venture to dispute the crown of France from me ... from me, Hugh, the Count of Paris?'