conquests of Cyrus over
the Persians were displayed; at another, the atrocities of the tyrant
Phalaris, witnessing the agonies of his victims, who were led to be
burned alive in a brass caldron red with heat; at still another place,
the founding of Rome by Romulus and Remus was reproduced; the conquests
of Alexander and Hannibal, and many other heroic subjects. One of the
galleries of the palace was consecrated wholly to the battles of Charles
Martel. He was seen triumphing over Saxons and Arabs, who, chained at
his feet, implored his clemency. So striking was the resemblance that
while crossing the hall Amael cried out:

"It is he! Those are his features! That was his bearing! He lives again!
It is Charles!"

"One would think you recognize an old acquaintance," observed the young
Roman, smiling. "Are you renewing your acquaintance with Charles
Martel?"

"Octave," answered the old man melancholically, "I am one hundred years
old--I fought at the battle of Poitiers against the Arabs."

"Among the troops of Charles Martel?"

"I saved his life," answered Amael, contemplating the gigantic picture;
and speaking to himself, he proceeded with a sigh: "Oh, how many
recollections, sweet and sad, do not those days bring back to me! My
beloved mother, my sweet Septimine!"

Octave regarded the old man with increasing astonishment, but, suddenly
collecting himself, he grew pensive and hastened his steps, followed by
the two hostages. Dazzled by the sights before him Vortigern examined
with the curiosity of his age the riches of all kinds that were heaped
up all around him. He could not refrain from stopping before two objects
that attracted his attention above all others. The first was a piece of
furniture of precious wood enriched with gilt mouldings. Pipes of
copper, brass and tin, of different thicknesses rose above each other in
tiers on one side of the wooden structure. "Octave," asked the young
Breton, "what kind of furniture is this?"

"It is a Greek organ that was recently sent to Charles by the Emperor of
Constantinople. The instrument is truly marvelous. With the aid of brass
vessels and of bellows made of ox-hides, which are concealed from view,
the air enters these tubes, and, when they are played upon, one time you
think you hear the rumbling of thunder, another time, the gentle notes
of the lyre or of cymbals. But look yonder, near that large table of
massive gold where the city of Constantinople is drawn in re