ion of
Burgundy, she was taken to Languedoc as a slave. After the last siege of
Narbonne by Charles, your mother was captured in the vicinity of the
town together with other women. When the division of the booty took
place, Rosen-Aer having fallen to the lot of your band was brought as
far as here.... If still you should doubt, I shall give you one more
token. That woman carries on her arm, like you, traced in indelible
letters the two words: '_Brenn_' and '_Karnak_'.... Are these details
accurate enough?"

"Oh, my mother!" cried the unfortunate Berthoald casting upon the waters
of the pond a look of most poignant pain.

"Your mother is now dead.... The jetty has disappeared under the waters,
and still they rise.... Aye, your mother was drowned in the covered
cart, where she was held confined with the other slaves."

"My heart breaks," murmured Berthoald, crushed by the weight of pain and
despair: "My suffering is beyond endurance!"

"Are you so soon at the end of your strength?" cried Meroflede with a
peal of infernal laughter. "Oh! no, no! You have not yet suffered
enough. What! You stupid slave! You Gallic renegade! Cowardly liar, who
brazenly deck yourself with the name of a noble Frank! What, did you
imagine vengeance did not boil in my veins because you saw me smile last
evening at the death of my ancestor, who was killed by a bandit of your
race! Aye! I smiled because I thought how at daybreak I would have you
witness from a distance the death agonies of your own mother! I was but
preparing my vengeance."

"Monster of lewdness and ferocity!" cried Berthoald, making superhuman
efforts to break his bonds. "I must punish you for your crimes!... Yes,
by Hesus, I shall throttle you with my own hands!"

The abbess realized the impotence of Berthoald's fury, shrugged her
shoulders and continued: "Your ancestor, the bandit, set fire a century
and a half ago to the castle of my ancestor, Count Neroweg, and killed
him with an axe. I reply to the fire with the inundation, and I drown
your mother! As to the fate that awaits you, it will be terrible!"

"Did my mother know that I was the chief of the Franks who took her
prisoner?"

"My vengeance lacked only that!"

"But who, miserable woman, could have told you what you know about my
mother?"

"The Jew Mordecai."

"How did he know her? Where did he see her?"

"At the halt that you made at the convent of St. Saturnine with Charles
Martel; it was there that the J