soil which they had won
from nature by severe toil, careless of death, whose secret they held,
the Gallic race lived, feared by the whole world, yet withal hospitable
to peoples who extended to them a friendly hand. These memories, kept
alive from age to age, will make slavery more horrible to our children,
and some day give them the strength to overthrow it. In order that these
memories may be thus transmitted from century to century, you must
promise by Hesus, my son, to be faithful to our old Gallic custom. You
must tenderly guard this collection of relics which I am going to
entrust you with; you must add to it; you must make your son Sylvest
swear to increase it in his turn, so that the children of your
grandchildren may imitate their fore-fathers, and may themselves be
imitated by their posterity. Here is the collection. The first roll
contains the story of all that has chanced to our family up to the
anniversary of my dear Hena's birthday, that day which also saw her die.
This other roll I received this evening about sunset from my son Albinik
the mariner. It contains the story of his journey across the burnt
territory, to the camp of Caesar. This account throws honor on the
courage of the Gaul, it throws honor on your brother and his wife,
faithful as they were, almost excessively so, to that maxim of our
fathers: 'Never did Breton commit treason.' These writings I confide to
you. You will return them to me after to-morrow's conflict if I survive.
If not, do you preserve them, or in lack of you, your brothers. Do you
inscribe the principal events of your life and your family's; hand the
account over to your son, that he may do as you, and thus on,
forever--generation after generation. Do you swear to me, by Hesus, to
respect my wishes?"

I, Guilhern the laborer, answered: "I swear to my father Joel, the brenn
of the tribe of Karnak, that I will faithfully carry out his desires."

The orders then given to me by my father, I have carried out to-day,
long after the battle of Vannes, and after innumerable misfortunes. I
make the recital or these misfortunes for you, my son Sylvest. It is not
with blood that I should write this narrative. No blood would run dry. I
write with tears of rage, hatred and anguish,--their source never runs
dry!

After my poor and well-beloved brother Albinik piloted the Roman fleet
into the bay of Morbihan, the following was the course of events on the
day of the battle of Vannes. It a