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The outskirt of the forest was reached at the peep of dawn a flitting moment in the month of June. At the distance a ruddy glamour was seen struggling against the approaching light of day it was the conflagration that still raged over the ruins of the burg. Ronan and the hermit-laborer were laid upon the grass, with little Odille seated beside them.
Hardly had Ronan left when the cry of the Vagres was heard attacking the leudes. At the cries, Odille threw herself distracted into the arms of the hermit, hid her face on his breast and sobbed aloud: "They will kill him! They will kill him!" "Courage, Franks! Courage, my sons in God!" shouted Cautin from the cart-wheel to which he was bound fast. "Exterminate those Moabites!
Until then, she positively declined seeing him, but enclosed a tress of her golden hair, and begged to hear from him frequently; adding directions that would insure the reception of his letters. Concluding she signed: "Odille Orme, hoping by the grace of God soon to subscribe myself Laurance." "Mr.
Odille sang the second couplet, but broken with the fatigue of the last twenty-four hours, and yielding to the influence of the chant's melancholy rhythm, that so often had lulled and rocked her to sleep on her mother's knees, the little slave's voice became fainter and fainter, while, at the distance the Vagres suddenly struck up in chorus and with resonant voices the refrain of another ancient chant of Gaul.
"This is not the light of day my child; it is the light from the lamp that burns outside our prison. Your strength seems exhausted, you were in a torpor." "I dreamed a sweet and sad dream. My mother rocked me on her knees singing the chant of Hena, and then she said to me weeping: 'Odille, it is you they are going to burn! I then woke up and believed it was day.
The leudes of Count Neroweg are approaching! To arms! To arms!" Awakened from her restful sleep by the tumult and hearing the cries of the Vagres, little Odille screamed with terror as she threw herself on the neck of Ronan: "Count Neroweg! Save me!" "Fear not, poor child!"
Old Karadeucq, who had preserved his vigor, looked youthed by fully twenty years. The joy of having saved his sons and of having Neroweg in his power seemed to impart new life to him. His eyes sparkled, his cheeks were aflame, he contemplated the count with greedy looks. "We shall be revenged," said Ronan, "you will be revenged, little Odille."
A few steps away sat Ronan; his feet were wrapped in rags; his wrists were manacled; unable either to hold himself on his feet or on his knees he leaned his back against the underground wall. The Vagre looked at Odille with a tenderness equal to that of the bishopess.
A sword!" "Here is one! What will you do with it, beautiful bishopess in Vagrery?" "I shall fight beside my Vagre!" Saying this the bishopess seized the proffered weapon like a Gallic woman of ancient days, and dashed forward upon the foe. "Little Odille, you wait here for me.
Ever and anon Ronan approached the wagon: "Take courage, Odille; you will get accustomed to us. The Vagres are not as wolfish as evil tongues pretend."
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