Bretons; "I shall notify the Emperor that you await
his pleasure, and learn whether he wishes to receive you at this
moment."

Despite his race and family hatred for the Frankish Kings or Emperors,
the conquerors and oppressors of Gaul, Vortigern experienced a thrill of
emotion at the thought of finding himself face to face with the mighty
Charles, the sovereign of almost all Europe. This first emotion was
speedily joined by a second--that mighty Emperor was the father of
Thetralde, the entrancing maid, who, the evening before, had thrown her
bouquet to the youth. Vortigern's thoughts never a moment fell upon the
brunette Hildrude. An instant later Octave reappeared and beckoned to
Amael and his grandson to step in, while in an undertone he warned them:
"Crook your knees low before the Emperor; it is the custom."

The centenarian cast a look at Vortigern with a negative sign of the
head. The youth understood, and the Bretons stepped into the bed-chamber
of Charles, whom they found in the company of his favorite Eginhard, the
archchaplain whom Imma had one night bravely carried on her back. A
servitor of the imperial chamber awaited the orders of his master.

When the two hostages entered the room, the monarch, whose stature,
though now unarmed, preserved its colossal dimensions, was seated on the
edge of his couch clad only in a shirt and hose that set off the
pre-eminence of his paunch. He had just put on one shoe and held the
other in his hand. His hair was almost white, his eyes were large and
sparkling, his nose was long, his neck short and thick like a bull's.
His physiognomy, of an open cast and instinct with joviality, recalled
the features of his grandfather, Charles Martel. At the sight of the two
Bretons the Emperor rose from the edge of the couch, and keeping his one
shoe in his hand, took two steps forward, limping on his left foot. As
he thus approached Amael he seemed a prey to a concealed emotion
somewhat mingled with a lively curiosity.

"Old man!" cried out Charles in his shrill voice that contrasted so
singularly with his giant stature, "Octave tells me you fought under
Charles Martel, my grandfather, nearly eighty years ago, and that you
saved his life at the battle of Poitiers."

"It is true," and carrying his hand to his forehead where the traces of
a deep wound were still visible, the aged Breton added: "I received this
wound at the battle of Poitiers."

The Emperor sat down again on the edg