rors of Gaul."

"I shall keep this last scion of Clovis?" cried Berthoald, at first
stupefied, but immediately thrilled with savage joy. "I shall keep him?
The boy who has among his ancestors a Clotaire, the murderer of
children! a Chilperic, the Nero of the Gauls! a Fredegonde, a second
Messalina! a Clotaire II, the executioner of Brunhild, and so many other
crowned monsters! Shall I be the jailor of their last issue?... The fate
of man is often strange.... I to be the guardian of the last descendant
of that conqueror of Gaul so much abhorred by my fathers!... Oh, the
gods are just!"

"Berthoald, are you going crazy? What is there so astonishing in your
becoming the watcher of this child?"

"Excuse me, Charles," answered Berthoald recollecting and fearing to
betray himself. "I was greatly struck with the thought that I, an
obscure soldier, should watch and hold as a prisoner the last scion of
so many kings! Is it not a strange fate?"

"Indeed this stock of Clovis, once so valiant, ends miserably!... But
how else could it be! These kinglets--fathers before fifteen, decayed at
thirty, brutified by wine, dulled by idleness, unnerved by youthful
debauchery, emaciated, stunted, and stupid--could not choose but end
this-wise.... The stewards of the palace, on the contrary--rough men,
always on the march from north to south, from east to west, and back
again, always on horseback, always fighting, always governing--they run
out into a Charles, and he is not frail, he is not stunted! Not he! His
beard is not artificial; he will be able to raise a breed of true
kings.... Upon the word of Martel, this second breed of kings will not
allow themselves to be exhibited in carts neither before nor after the
assemblies of the Field of May by any stewards of palaces!"

"Who can tell, Charles! It may happen that if you raise a breed of
kings, their stock will run down just as that of Clovis has done, whose
last scion you wish to put under my charge."

"By the devil! By the navel of the Pope! Do you see any sign of decay in
us, the sons of Pepin of Old, who have been the hereditary stewards of
the palace since the reign of Queen Brunhild?"

"You were not kings, Charles; and royalty carries with it a poison that
in the long run enervates and kills the most virile stock--"

At this moment Father Clement came tumbling into the room in great
excitement, and broke the thread of the conversation between Charles
Martel and Berthoald.