es,
perchance, my race not descend from that haughty Roman stock that made
the world to tremble only a few centuries ago? Have I not seen the
throne of the Caesars occupied by hypocritical, ambitious, greedy and
debauched Popes, with their black-gowned and tonsured militia? Have not
the descendants of our haughty Roman Emperors gone in their imbecile
idleness to vegetate in Constantinople, where they still indulge the
dreams of Universal Empire? Have not the Catholic priests chased from
their Olympus the charmful deities of our fathers? Have they not torn
down, mutilated and ravished the temples, statues, altars--the
master-works of the divine art of Rome and Greece? Go to, Vortigern, and
follow my example! Instead of fretting over a ship-wrecked past, let's
drink and forget! Let our fair mistresses be our Saints, and their
couches our altars! Let our Eucharist be a flower-decked cup, and for
liturgy, let's sing the amorous couplets of Tibullus, of Ovid, and of
Horace. Yes, indeed, and take my advice: let's drink, love and enjoy
life! That's truly to live! You will never again come across such an
opportunity. The gods of joy are sending you to the Emperor's court."

"What do you mean?" queried Vortigern almost mechanically, and feeling
his inexperienced sense, though not perverted, yet dazzled by the facile
and sensuous philosophy of Octave. "What would you have one become in
the midst of that court so strange to me, who have been brought up in
our rustic Brittany?"

"Child that you are! A swarm of beautiful eyes will be focused upon
you!"

"Octave, you are mocking again. Am I to be taken notice of? I, a field
laborer's son? I, a poor Breton prisoner on parole?"

"And do you think your reputation for a bedevilled Breton goes for
nothing? More than once have I heard told of the furious curiosity with
which, about twenty-five years ago, the hostages taken to
Aix-la-Chapelle, at the time of the first war against your country,
inspired everyone at court. The most charming women wished to behold
those indomitable Bretons whom only the great Charles had been able to
vanquish. Their haughty and rude mien, the interest centred in their
defeat, everything, down to their strange costumes, drew upon them the
looks and the sympathy of the women, who, in Germany, are ever strongly
prone to love. The fascinating enthusiasts of then are now become
mothers and grandfathers. But, happily, they have daughters and
grand-daughters who