now nearly six years ago, at
the time that those heathens from Arabia, who had settled in Gaul,
pushed forward as far as Tours and Blois, I marched against them. One
day I saw arrive at my camp a young chief followed by fifty daring
devils. It was you, the son, as you told me, of a Frankish seigneur, who
was dead and had been dispossessed of his benefice, like so many others.
I cared nothing about your birth. When the blade is well tempered I care
little about the name of the armorer," Charles explained as he noticed a
slight quiver in the eyelashes of Berthoald whose forehead swiftly
mantled with a blush and whose eyes dropped in involuntary confusion.
"You searched your fortune in war and had assembled a band of determined
men. You came to offer me your sword and your services. The next day, on
the plains of Poitiers, you and your men fought so bravely against the
Arabs that you lost three-fourths of your little troop. With your own
hands you killed Abd-el-Rhaman, the general of those heathens, and you
received two wounds in disengaging me from a group of horsemen who were
about to kill me, and would thereby have ended the war to the lasting
injury of the Franks."

"It was my duty as a soldier to defend my chief. I deserve no praise for
that."

"And it is now my duty as your chief to reward your soldierly courage. I
shall never forget that I owe my life to your valor. Neither will my
children. They will read in some notes I have left on my campaign: 'At
the battle of Poitiers, Charles owed his life to Berthoald; let my
children remember it every time they see the scar that the brave warrior
carries on his forehead.'"

"Charles, your praises embarrass me."

"I love you sincerely. Since the battle of Poitiers I have looked upon
you as one of my best companions in arms, although at times you are as
stubborn as a mule and quite odd in your tastes. If the matter in hand
is a war in the east or the north against the Frisians or the Saxons, or
in the south against the Arabs, there is no more rageful hammerer on the
enemies' heads than yourself; but when we had to suppress some revolts
of the Gauls you fought gingerly, almost against your will.... You no
longer were the same daring champion.... Your sword did not leave its
scabbard."

"Charles, tastes differ," answered Berthoald laughing with so obvious an
effort that it betrayed some poignant recollection. "In matters of
battle it is as in matters of women, tastes dif