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Updated: June 15, 2025
Is there any present, Prince or seigneur, who dares outrage divine majesty?" "There is here the Lion of Poitiers, who makes you this answer: Cautin, bishop of Clermont, I shall break my switch over your back if you do not quit speaking with such insolence." By the faith of a Vagre! The Lion of Poitiers, the renegade Gaul, had some occasional good quality.
Master of the Hounds!" cried one of the lusty Vagres, who stood near one of the small doors of the chapel opening into the garden. "Whither are you bound with the bishopess on your arm? Would she not like to come and see her darling husband, the holy Bishop Cautin, before we hang him?"
For centuries did our fathers see Gaul peaceful and flourishing. She then was free!" replied the hermit with bitterness. "To-day she is again enslaved." "Our fathers were miserable heathens! At this very hour they are gnashing their teeth in all eternity!" cried Cautin.
In those wars against the heretics, the Frankish Kings took an immense booty, they caused the orthodox faith to triumph, and snatched the souls of men from the everlasting flames by leading them back to the bosom of the holy Church." He who might have assisted at the recent supper at the episcopal villa, where the bishop had Neroweg for his guest, would not have recognized Cautin.
Bishop Cautin again struck the floor with his feet under the table. "Count, do you smell that odor of sulphur?" "I do feel a pungent odor." "Do you see the smoke that is coming up from between those stone slabs?" "Whence does that smoke proceed?" cried Neroweg affrighted, rising from the table and jumping back from a near place where a thick black vapor was curling upward.
Despite his ire, Bishop Cautin excelled himself as a cook. Long before had a certain sauce known to be a favorite with the bishop been the subject of talk in Vagrery. The holy man was ordered to produce it. He did. He filled with it a large caldron into which each one dipped his roast, whether of game or beef it was a toothsome sauce, made of old wine and oil, aromated with wild thyme.
Suddenly, however, a wrathful and threatening voice, a veritable mar-plot, froze the marrow of the poor folks with terror. "Woe unto you! Damnation upon your families! if you dare to touch with sacrilegious hands the goods of the Church! Tremble! Tremble! It is a mortal sin! You, your husbands, your children, you will all be thrown into the flames of hell for all time!" It was Bishop Cautin.
The fratricide! Come to us! Cain, you are ours!" "Oh! Those cries are frightful. Good father in Christ, pray to the Lord that he forgive me!" "Ah! Now you are on your knees, pale and distracted, with hands clasped, your eyes closed with terror! Will you still ask where is hell?" "No! No! Holy bishop! Holy Bishop Cautin!
Grinding his teeth, he followed the orders of Chram, alighted from his horse, and after a further instant of hesitation, dropped upon his knees and shook his fist at Cautin.
He has removed his heavy sword from his broad and loosely hanging baldric and laid it upon a seat nearby, beside a stout holly club. Such is the convivial guest of the prelate, such is Count Neroweg, one of these new masters of the old lands of Gaul. Bishop Cautin resembles a large, fat, ruttish fox lascivious and sly eyes, red ears, a mobile and pointed nose, hirsute hands.
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