uential men of the tribe were chosen for
hostages; we left them on the road on account of their wounds, and
proceeded only with this old man, who was the soul of the last wars, and
also this youth, who, through his family connections, is related to one
of the most dangerous chieftains of Armorica. I must admit that in
taking him, we yielded also to the prayers of his mother. She was very
anxious that he should accompany his grandfather on this long journey,
which is very trying to a centenarian."

"And you," resumed the Emperor, addressing Vortigern, whom, during the
account given by Octave, he had been examining with attention and
interest, "no doubt also hate inveterately that Charles, the conqueror
and devastator?"

"The Emperor Charles has white hair; I am only eighteen years old,"
retorted the young Breton, blushing. "I can not answer."

"Old man," observed Charles, visibly affected by the lad's
self-respecting yet becoming modesty, "the mother of your grandson must
be a happy woman. But coming to think of it, my lad, was it not you who
yesterday evening, shortly before my arrival, came near breaking your
neck with a fall from your horse?"

"I!" cried Vortigern, blushing with pride; "I, fall from my horse! Who
dared to say so!"

"Oh! Oh! my lad. You are red up to your ears," the Emperor exclaimed,
laughing aloud. "But, never mind. Be tranquil. I do not mean to wound
your pride of horsemanship. Far from it. Before I saw you to-day my ears
have rung with the interminable praises of your gracefulness and daring
on horseback. My dear daughters, especially little Thetralde and the
tall Hildrude, told me at least ten times at supper that they had seen a
savage young Breton, although wounded in one arm, manage his horse like
the most skilful of my equerries."

"If I deserve any praise, it must be addressed to my grandfather,"
modestly answered Vortigern. "It was he who taught me to ride on
horseback."

"I like that answer, my lad. It shows your modesty and a proper respect
for your elders. Are you lettered? Can you read and write?"

"Yes, thanks to the instruction of my mother."

"Can you sing mass in the choir?"

"I!" cried Vortigern in great astonishment. "I sing mass! No, no, by
Hesus! We do not sing mass in my country."

"There they are, the Breton pagans!" exclaimed Charles. "Oh, my bishops
are right, they are a devil-possessed people, those folks of Armorica.
What a pity that so handsome and so modest