uld him into a Christian
knight, the feudal baron was a very intractable individual. No one could
be more brutal or more barbarous than he. Our more ancient
ballads--those which are founded on the traditions of the ninth and
tenth centuries--supply us with a portrait which does not appear
exaggerated. I know nothing in this sense more terrible than _Raoul de
Cambrai_, and the hero of this old poem would pass for a type of a
half-civilized savage. This Raoul was a kind of Sioux or other redskin,
who only wanted tattoo and feathers in his hair to be complete. Even a
redskin is a believer, or superstitious to some extent, while Raoul
defied the Deity himself. The savage respects his mother, as a rule; but
Raoul laughed at his mother, who cursed him. Behold him as he invaded
the Vermandois, contrary to all the rights of legitimate heirs. He
pillaged, burned, and slew in all directions: he was everywhere
pitiless, cruel, horrible. But at Origni he appears in all his ferocity.
"You will erect my tent in the church, you will make my bed before the
altar, and put my hawks on the golden crucifix." Now that church
belonged to a convent. What did that signify to him? He burned the
convent, he burned the church, he burned the nuns! Among them was the
mother of his most faithful servitor, Bernier--his most devoted
companion and friend--almost his brother! but he burned her with the
others. Then, when the flames were still burning, he sat himself down,
on a fast-day, to feast amid the scenes of his sanguinary
exploits--defying God and man, his hands steeped in blood, his face
lifted to heaven. That was the kind of soldier, the savage of the tenth
century, whom the church had to educate!

Unfortunately this Raoul de Cambrai is not a unique specimen; he was not
the only one who had uttered this ferocious speech: "I shall not be
happy until I see your heart cut out of your body." Aubri de Bourguignon
was not less cruel, and took no trouble to curb his passions. Had he the
right to massacre? He knew nothing about that, but meanwhile he
continued to kill. "Bah!" he would say, "it is always an enemy the
less." On one occasion he slew his four cousins. He was as sensual as
cruel. His thick-skinned savagery did not appear to feel either shame or
remorse; he was strong and had a weighty hand--that was sufficient.
Ogier was scarcely any better, but notwithstanding all the glory
attaching to his name, I know nothing more saddening than the fina