women of reddish and of auburn hair, some tall, others stout, and yet
others thin and slender. It was a complete display of Germanic feminine
types--from the tender maid up to the stately matron of forty years. The
eyes of Vortigern fell with preference upon a girl of not more than
fifteen, clad in a tunic of pale green embroidered with silver. Nothing
sweeter could be imagined than her rosy and fresh face crowned and set
off by long and thick strands of blonde hair; her delicate neck, white
as a swan's, seemed to undulate under the weight of her magnificent head
of hair. Another maid of about twenty years--a pronounced brunette,
robust, with challenging eyes, black hair, and clad in a tunic of
orange--leaned on the balustrade, supporting her chin in one hand, close
to the younger blonde, on whose shoulders she familiarly rested her
right arm. Each held in her hand a nose-gay of rosemary, whose fragrance
they inhaled from time to time, all the while conversing in a low voice
and contemplating the group of riders with increasing curiosity. They
had learned that the escort was not the Emperor's, but that it brought
the Breton hostages.

"Give thanks to my friendship, Vortigern," Octave whispered to the lad.
"I am going to place you in evidence, and to display you at your true
worth." Saying this, Octave covertly gave Vortigern's horse such a sharp
touch of his whip under the animal's belly that, had the Breton been
less of a horseman, he had been thrown by the violence of the bound made
by his mount. Thus unexpectedly stung, the animal reared, poised himself
dangerously for a moment and then leaped so high that Vortigern's coif
grazed the bottom of the terrace where the group of women stood. The
blonde young girl grew pale with terror, and hiding her face in her
hands, exclaimed: "Unhappy lad! He is killed! Poor young man!"

Yielding to the impulse of his age as well as to a sense of pride at
finding himself the object of the attention of the crowd that was
gathered around him, Vortigern severely chastised his horse, whose leaps
and bounds threatened to become dangerous. But the lad, preserving his
presence of mind and drawing upon his skill, displayed so much grace and
vigor in the struggle, despite his right arm's being held in the scarf,
that the crowd wildly clapped its hands and cried: "Glory to the
Breton!" "Honor to the Breton!" Two bouquets of rosemary fell, at that
moment, at the feet of the horse that, brought a