by Eugène Sue
Karouer, the guide, shook his head, and answered, pointing with his pen-bas in the direction of the dense woods: “To reach them we would have to make a leap of two hundred feet, or a circuit of nearly three leagues over the mountains. Which shall it be?”
“Let us, then, pursue our route, my trusty guide. But tell us how long will it take us to arrive in the valley of Lokfern?”
“Look yonder, below, away below, close to the horizon. Do you see the last of those bluish crests? That is the Menez-c’Hom, the highest peak of the Black Mountains. The other peak towards the west, and lying somewhat nearer, is Lach-Renan. It is between those two peaks that lies the valley of Lokfern, where Morvan, the husbandman and Chief of Brittany lives.”
“Are you certain that he will be at his farm-house?”
“A husbandman always returns to his farm-house after sunset. We shall find him there.”
“Do you know Morvan personally?”
“I am of his tribe. I fought under him at the time of our last struggles against the Franks, when Charles, the Emperor, lived.”
“Is this Morvan married, do you know?”
“His wife Noblede is the worthy spouse of Morvan. She is of the stock of Joel. That says everything. We honor and venerate her.”
“Who is that Joel, whom you mentioned?”
“One of the worthiest men, whose memory Armorica has preserved green. His daughter, Hena, the Virgin of the Isle of Sen, offered her own life in sacrifice for the safety of Gaul when the Romans invaded these parts.”
“I have been told that your people apprehend an invasion of the Franks in Brittany, and that you are making ready for a declaration of war from Louis the Pious, son of the great Charles.”
“Have you seen any preparations for war since you crossed our frontier?”
“I have seen the husbandmen in the fields, the shepherds leading their flocks, the cities open and tranquil. But it is known that in your country, woodmen, husbandmen, shepherds and town folks transform themselves into soldiers at a moment’s notice.”
“Yes, when our country is threatened with invasion.”
“And do you apprehend such an invasion?”
Karouer looked at the abbot fixedly, smiled sarcastically, made no answer, whistled, and presently broke out into a Breton song, mechanically whirling his pen-bas as he strode rapidly forward in the lead of the three monks.
Night drew on. Karouer and the dignitaries whom he guided, having been all day on the march, were now approaching one of the highest points on the mountain path that they had been following, when, struck by an unexpected spectacle, Witchaire suddenly reined in his horse.
The sight that took the abbot by surprise was, indeed, startling. A flame, hardly distinguishable by reason of its great distance, and yet perceptible on the horizon, whose outlines the dusk had not yet wholly blotted out, had barely arrested his attention, when, almost instantaneously, similar tongues of fire gradually shot up from the distant tops of the long chain of the Black Mountains. The fires gained in brilliancy and size in the measure that they broke out nearer and nearer to the spot where the abbot stood. Suddenly, only twenty paces away from him, the startled prelate perceived a bluish gleam through a dense smoke. The gleam speedily changed into a brilliant flame, that, shooting upwards toward the starry sky, spread a light so bright that the abbot, his monks, his guide, the rocks round about and a good portion of the crag of the mountain stood illumined as if at noon. A few minutes later similar bonfires continued to be kindled from hill to hill, tracing back, as it seemed, the route that the travelers had left behind, and losing themselves in the distance in the evening haze. The abbot remained mute with stupefaction. Karouer emitted three times a gutteral and loud cry resembling that of a night bird. A similar cry, proceeding from behind the plateau of rocks where the nearest bonfire was burning, responded to the signal from Karouer.
“What fires are these that are springing up from hill-top to hill-top?” the abbot inquired with intense curiosity the moment he recovered from his astonishment. “It must be some signal.”
“At this moment,” answered Karouer, “similar fires are burning from all the hill-tops of Armorica, from the mountains of Arres to the Black Mountains and the ocean.”
“But to what purpose?”
As was his wont, Karouer made no answer to such pointed interrogatories, but striking up some Breton song, quickened his steps, while he whirled his pen-bas in the air.
CHAPTER II.
THE BRETON CHIEF.
THE HOME OF Morvan, the husbandman, who was chosen Chief of the Chiefs of Brittany, was located about the middle of the valley of Lokfern, and nestled among the last spurs of the Black Mountains. A strong system of palisades, constructed of tough trunks of oak fastened together by means of stout cross-beams, and raised on the near side of deep ditches, defended the approaches of the farm-house. Outside of the fortified enclosure, a forest of centenarian oaks extended to the north and east; to the south, green meadows sloped gently towards the windings of a swift running river that was bordered with beeches and alders.
The house of Morvan, its contiguous barns, kennels and stables, had the rough exterior of the Gallic structures of olden days. A sort of rustic porch shaded the main entrance to the house. Under this porch, and enjoying the close of the delightful summer day, were Noblede, the spouse of Morvan, and Josseline, the young wife of Vortigern. The latter, a radiant woman of smiling beauty, was suckling her latest born, with her other two children, Ewrag and Rosneven, respectively four and five years of age, at her side. Caswallan, a Christian druid, an aged man of venerable appearance, whose beard vied in whiteness with his long robe, smiled tenderly upon little Ewrag, whom he held on his knees. Noblede, Morvan’s wife and sister of Vortigern, now about thirty years of age, was a woman of rare comeliness, although her features bore the stamp of a rooted sadness. Ten years a wife, Noblede had not yet tasted the sweets of motherhood. Her grave aspect and her high stature recalled those matrons, who, in the days of Gaul’s independence, sat loyally by the side of their husbands at the supreme councils of the nation.[C] Noblede and Josseline were spinning, while the other women and daughters of Morvan’s household busied themselves with the preparations for the evening meal, or in the other domestic occupations, such as replenishing with forage the stalls that the cattle were to find ready upon their return from the fields. The Christian druid Caswallan, with Ewrag, the second child of the blonde Josseline, on his knees, had just finished making the boy recite his lesson in religion under the following symbolic forms:
“White child of the druid, answer me, what shall I tell you?”
“Tell me the parts of the number three,” the child would answer, “make them known to me, that I may learn them to-day.”
“There are three parts of the world — three beginnings and three ends to man as to the oak — three celestial kingdoms, fruits of gold, brilliant flowers and little children who laugh. These three kingdoms, where the fruits of gold, the brilliant flowers and the children who laugh are found, my little Ewrag, are the worlds in which those, who in this world have performed pure and celestial acts, will be successively born again and will continue to live with ever increasing happiness. Now, what must we be in order to perform such acts?”
“We must be wise, good and just,” the child would reply. “Furthermore death must not be feared, because we are born again and again, from world to world with an ever renewed body. We must love Brittany like a tender mother — and bravely defend her against her enemies.”
“Yes, my child,” broke in Noblede, drawing her brother’s child to herself. “Always remember those sacred words: ‘To love and defend Brittany’;” and Morvan’s wife tenderly embraced Ewrag.
“Mother! mother!” cried up little Rosneven, joyfully clapping his hands and rushing out of the porch followed by his brother Ewrag: “Here is father!”
Caswallan, Noblede and Josseline rose at the gladsome cries of the child and walked out towards two la
rge wagons heavily laden with golden sheaves, and drawn by a yoke of oxen.
Morvan and Vortigern were seated in front of one of the wagons surrounded by a considerable number of men and lads belonging to the household, or to the tribe of the Chief of the Chiefs, carrying in their hands the sickles, the forks and the rakes used by the harvesters. At a little distance behind them came the shepherds with their flocks whose bells were heard clinking from the distance. Morvan, in the vigor of life, robust and thick-set, like most of the inhabitants of the Black Mountains, wore their rustic garb — wide breeches of coarse white material, and a linen shirt that exposed his sunburnt chest and neck. His long hair, auburn like his thick beard, framed his manly face. His forehead was high; his eyes intrepid and piercing. As to Vortigern, the maturer gravity of manhood, of husband and father, had succeeded the flower of youth. His looks were expressive of sweet delight at the sight of the two boys who had ran out to meet him. He jumped down from the wagon and embraced them affectionately while he looked for his wife and sister, who, accompanied by Caswallan, were not long in joining him.
“Dear wife, the harvest will be plentiful,” said Morvan to Noblede, and pointing to the overloaded wagons, he added: “Have you ever seen more beautiful wheat, or more golden sheaves? Look at them and wonder!”
“Morvan,” put in Josseline, “you are this year harvesting earlier than customary. We, of the region of Karnak would leave our wheat to ripen on the stalk fully two weeks longer. Not so, Vortigern?”
“No, my sweet Josseline,” answered her husband, “I shall follow Morvan’s example. We shall return home to-morrow, so as to start taking in the harvest as soon as possible.”
“I am going to furnish you with still more matter for astonishment,” Morvan proceeded. “Instead of leaving the sheaves in the barn that the grain may ripen, this wheat that you see there, and that was cropped only to-day, will be threshed this very night. Vortigern and myself will not be the only ones to ply the flails on the threshing-floor of the barn. So, then, Noblede, let us have supper early, and then to work!”
“What, Morvan!” exclaimed Josseline, “after this tiring day’s work, spent in gathering in the crop, do you and Vortigern mean to spend the night at work, and threshing, at that?”
“It will be a cheerful night, my Josseline,” put in Vortigern. “While we shall be threshing the wheat, you will sing us some songs, Caswallan will recite to us some old legend, and we shall stave in a barrel of hydromel to cheer the laborers who have come to join us. Work goes hand in hand with pleasure.”
“Vortigern,” the Christian druid said, smiling, “do you, perchance, think that my arms are so much enfeebled by old age that I could no longer wield a flail? I mean to help you at work.”
“And we?” put in Josseline, laughing merrily, “we, the daughters and wives of the field-laborers, did we, perchance, lose the skill of carrying the wheat to the threshing-floor, or of bagging the grain?”
“And we?” Ewrag and his brother Rosneven cried in turn, “could not we also carry a stalk, six stalks, twenty stalks?”
“Oh! you are brave boys, my little ones,” exclaimed Vortigern, embracing his children, while Morvan said to his wife:
“Noblede, do not forget to have the guest’s chamber in order and supplied with food.”
“Do you expect any guests, Morvan?” inquired Josseline, with great curiosity. “They will be welcome; they will assist us at the threshing to-night.”
“My beloved Josseline,” answered the Chief of the Chiefs, smiling, “the guests whom I expect eat the choicest of wheat, but never take the trouble of either sowing or harvesting. They belong to a class of people who live on the fat of the land.”
“The guest’s chamber is always ready,” replied Noblede; “the floor is strewn with fresh leaves. Alack! No one occupied it since it was last occupied by Amael.”
“Worthy grandfather!” exclaimed Vortigern with a sigh.
“He came to us only to languish a few weeks and pass away.”
“May his memory be blessed, as was his life,” said Josseline. “I knew him only a very short while, but I loved and venerated him like my father.”
The family of Morvan, together with the rest of his tribe who cultivated his lands in common with himself, men, women and children, about thirty in all, presently sat down to a long table, placed in a large hall that served at once for kitchen, refectory and a place of assembly during the long nights of the winter. From the walls hung weapons of war and of the hunt, fishing nets, bridles and horse saddles. Although it was midsummer, such was the coolness of that region of woods and mountains, that the heat of the hearth, before which the meats for the supper were broiled, felt decidedly comfortable to the harvesters. Its flamboyant light mingled with that cast by the torches of resinous wood, that were fastened in iron clamps along the four walls. After the industrious group had finished their repast, Morvan was the first to rise.
“And now, my boys, to work! The night is clear, we shall thresh the wheat on the outside floor. Two or three torches planted between the stones on the edge of the well will give us light until the moon rises. We shall be through with our task by one o’clock in the morning, we shall sleep until daybreak, and we shall then return to the fields and finish taking in the crop.”
The torches, placed at Morvan’s orders around the edge of the well, cast their bright light upon a portion of the yard and buildings that were within the fortified enclosure. Several men, the women and the children, took a hand in unloading the wagons, while those who were to do the threshing, Morvan, Vortigern and the old Caswallan among them, stood waiting for the grain to be brought to them, their flails in their hands, having for the sake of comfort, stripped themselves of all their superfluous clothing and keeping only their breeches and shirts on. The first bundles of grain were placed in the center of the floor, whereupon the rapid rhythm of the flails, vigorously wielded by robust and experienced arms, resounded through the air. Apprehending a speedy war, the Bretons were hastening to take in their crops and place them under cover in order to save them from the ravages of the enemy, as well as to deprive these of food. The grains were to be concealed in underground caves covered with earth. Morvan, whose forehead began to be moistened with perspiration, said, while rapidly handling the flail:
“Caswallan, you promised us a song. Take a little rest and sing. It will inspire us in our work.”
The Christian druid sang “Lez-Breiz,” an old national song that ever sounded sweet on the ears of the Bretons. It began thus:
“Between a Frankish warrior and Lez-Breiz
A combat was arranged;
It was arranged with due formalities. —
May God give the victory to the Breton,
And gladsome tidings to his county. —
That day Lez-Breiz said to his young attendant:
Rise, furbish up my handsome casque; my lance and my sword;
I mean to redden them in the blood of the Franks. —
I shall make them jump this day!”
“Old Caswallan,” said one of the laborers when the druid had finished the long and inspiring strain that warmed the blood of his hearers with martial ardor, “let the accursed Franks come again, and we shall say, like Lez-Breiz: ‘With the aid of our two arms, let us make them jump again to-day’—”
A furious barking of the shepherd dogs, that for some little time had been emitting low and intermittent growls, interrupted at this moment the remarks of the laborers, and all turned their eyes towards the gate of the enclosure, whither the dogs had precipitated themselves furiously.
CHAPTER III.
ABBOT AND BRETON.
THE STRANGERS WHOSE approach the dogs announced were Abbot Witchaire, his two monks and his guide Karouer. Preceded by the guide, who pacified the alarm of the watchful animals, the clerical cavalcade rode into the enclosure, while Karouer informed the abbot:
“This is the house of Morvan. We have arrived at our destination. You may now dismoun
t.”
“What are those torches yonder for?” asked the prelate descending from his horse, the reins of which he threw over to one of his monks. “What is that muffled sound I hear?”
“It is the sound of the flails. Doubtlessly Morvan is threshing the grain that he has harvested. Come, I shall lead you to him.”
Abbot Witchaire and his guide approached the group of laborers, upon whom the torches cast a clear light. Morvan, intently at work, and the noise of the flails deafening the sound of the steps and voices of the new arrivals, failed to hear them. Not until Karouer had tapped the Chief of the Chiefs upon the shoulder in order to draw the latter’s attention to him, did Morvan turn to look. Recognizing Karouer, the Chief of the Chiefs stopped a moment and said:
“Oh! Is that you, Karouer? What tidings do you bring from our man?”
“I bring him to you in person,” answered Karouer, pointing to his traveling companion. “He stands before you in flesh and bone.”
“Are you the Abbot Witchaire?” asked Morvan, slightly out of breath with the heavy work that he had been performing; and crossing his robust arms over the handle of his flail, he added: “As I expected your visit, I have had supper prepared for you. Come to table.”
“I prefer first to speak to you.”
“Noblede,” said Morvan, wiping the perspiration that inundated his forehead with the back of his hand, “a torch, my dear wife!” And turning to the abbot: “Follow me.”
Taking up one of the torches that were stuck at the edge of the well, Noblede preceded her husband and Abbot Witchaire to the chamber that was reserved for guests. Two large beds stood ready, as also a big table furnished with cold meats, milk, bread and fruit. After placing the torch into one of the iron clamps fastened in the wall, Noblede was about to withdraw when Morvan said to her in a significant tone: