The Casque's Lark; or, Victoria, the Mother of the Camps. Эжен Сю

Чтение книги онлайн.

      She mounts the pyre, her golden harp in hand,

      And singeth thus:

      And Douarnek, along with the three other soldiers, repeated in a low voice, vibrating with pious admiration, this last refrain:

      I alone did not join in the last refrain of the song. I was too deeply moved!

      Noticing my emotion and my silence, Douarnek said to me surprised:

      "What, Schanvoch, have you lost your voice? You remain silent at the close of so glorious a song?"

      "Your speech is sooth, Douarnek; it is just because that song is particularly glorious to me – that you see me so deeply moved."

      "That song is particularly glorious to you? I do not understand you."

      "Hena was the daughter of one of my ancestors."

      "What say you!"

      "Hena was the daughter of Joel, the brenn of the tribe of Karnak, who died, together with his wife and almost all his family, at the great battle of Vannes – a battle that was fought on land and water nearly three centuries ago. From father to son, I descend from Joel."

      "Do you know, Schanvoch," replied Douarnek, "that even kings would be proud of such an ancestry?"

      "The blood shed for our country and for liberty by all of us Gauls is our national patent of nobility," I said to him. "It is for that reason that our old songs are so popular among us."

      "When one considers," put in one of the younger soldiers, "that it is now more than three hundred years since Hena, the saintly maid, surrendered her own life for the deliverance of the country, and that her name still reaches us!"

      "Although it took the young virgin's voice more than two centuries to rise to the ears of Hesus," replied Douarnek, "her voice did finally reach him, seeing that to-day we can say – Victory to our arms! Victory and freedom!"

      We had now arrived at about the middle of the river, where the stream is very rapid.

      Raising his oar, Douarnek asked me:

      "Shall we enter the strong current? That would be a waste of strength, unless we are either to ascend or descend the river a distance equal to that that now separates us from the shore."

      "We are to cross the Rhine in its full breadth, friend Douarnek."

      "Cross it!" cried the veteran with amazement. "Cross the Rhine! And what for?"

      "To land on the opposite shore."

      "Do you know what that means, Schanvoch? Is not the army of those Frankish bandits, if one can honor those savage hordes with the name of army, encamped on the opposite shore?"

      "It is to those very barbarians that I am bound."

      For a few moments all the four oars rested motionless in their oarlocks. The soldiers looked at one another speechless, as if they could not believe what they heard me say.

      Douarnek was the first to break the silence. With a soldier's unconcern he said to me:

      "Is it, then, a sacrifice that we are to offer to Hesus by delivering our hides to those hide-tanners? If such be the orders, forward! Bend to your oars, my lads!"

      "Have you forgotten, Douarnek, that we have a truce of eight days with the Franks?"

      "There is no such thing as a truce to those brigands."

      "As you will notice, I have made the signal of peace by ornamenting the prow of our bark with green boughs. I shall proceed alone into the enemy's camp, with an oak branch in my hand."

      "And they will slay you despite all your oak branches, as they have slain other envoys during previous truces."

      "That may happen, Douarnek; but when the chief commands, the soldier obeys. Victoria and her son have ordered me to proceed to the Frankish camp. So thither I go!"

      "It surely was not out of fear that I spoke, Schanvoch, when I said that those savages would not leave our heads on our shoulders, nor our skins on our bodies. I only spoke from the old habit of sincerity. Well, then, my lads, fall to with a will! Bend to your oars! We have the order from our mother – the Mother of the Camps – and we obey. Forward! even if we are to be flayed alive by the barbarians, a cruel sport that they often indulge in at the expense of their prisoners."

      "And it is also said," put in the young soldier with a less unperturbed voice than Douarnek's, "it is also said that the priestesses of the nether world who follow the Frankish hordes drop their prisoners into large brass caldrons, and boil them alive with certain magic herbs."

      "Ha! Ha!" replied Douarnek merrily, "the one of us who may be boiled in that way will at least enjoy the advantage of being the first to taste his own soup – that's some consolation. Forward! Ply your oars! We are obeying orders from the Mother of the Camps."

      "Oh! We would row straight into an abyss, if Victoria so ordered!"

      "She has been well named, the Mother of the Camps and of the soldiers. It is a treat to see her visiting the wounded after each battle."

      "And addressing them with her kind words, that almost make the whole ones regret that they have not been wounded, too."

      "And then she is so beautiful. Oh, so beautiful!"

      "Oh! When she rides through the camp, mounted on her white steed, clad in her long black robe, her bold face looking out from under her casque, and yet her eyes shining with so much mildness, and her smile so motherly! It is like a vision!"

      "It is said for certain that our Victoria knows the future as well as she knows the present."

      "She must have some charm about her. Who would believe, seeing her, that she is the mother of a son of twenty-two?"

      "Oh! If the son had only fulfilled the promise that his younger years gave!"

      "Victorin will always be loved as he has been."

      "Yes, but it is a great pity!" remarked Douarnek shaking his head sadly, after the other soldiers had thus given vent to their thoughts and feelings. "Yes, it is a great pity! Oh! Victorin is no longer the child of the camps that we, old soldiers with grey СКАЧАТЬ