ther route? The one barred is the only one, you
told me, that crosses this forest, otherwise impracticable to an army."

The monk looks around; he reflects; but no answer proceeds from his
lips. A prey to discouragement and increasing terror, the soldiers begin
to grumble, when suddenly three quickly succeeding cries of the
night-bird pierce the air. Immediately the Breton slingers and archers,
ambushed behind the breast-work of fallen trees, assail the Franks with
a volley of stones and arrows. Enormous oak branches, previously
prepared, detach themselves from the tops of their trunks, and come down
crashing upon the heads of the soldiers, killing or mutilating them.
Anew, panic seizes the Franks; a fresh carnage decimates them.
Cavalrymen thrown from their horses, foot soldiers trampled under the
hoofs of the frightened steeds, all blinded, their flesh torn as in
their fright they precipitate themselves into the thick of the prickly
holly hedges--such is this day's spectacle presented to the delighted
Breton eyes by the invading army of Neroweg. What an inspiring spectacle
to the Armorican Gauls! The air is filled with the moans of the dying,
the imprecations of the wounded, the threats hurled at the monk, now
roundly charged with treason.

The carnage and the panic are at their height when, climbing to the top
of the breast-work of trees whence he can gain a full view of the
distracted foe, Vortigern appears before the Franks and calls out to
them defiantly:

"Now you may try to cross the forest. Our quivers are empty. We shall
retreat to replenish them and shall be ready to meet you in the valley
of Lokfern."

Vortigern has barely uttered these words when his eyes catch sight of
the chief of the Franks, who, having descended from his horse, holds up
against the stones and bolts of his assailants, his white buckler, on
which three eagle's talons are seen painted. At the sight of the device
of his own stock's ancestral foe, Vortigern places his last arrow upon
the string of his bow.

"The descendant of Joel sends this to the descendant of the Nerowegs."

The arrow whizzes. It grazes the lower border of the Frank's buckler,
and penetrates his knee just above the jointure.

Neroweg falls upon the other knee, points out the Gaul to several
archers in his vicinity, and cries:

"Take aim at that bandit! Kill him!"

The Saxon arrows fly through the air; two strike, and quiver where they
strike, in the upturned br