road it had traveled. From time
to time, Amael turned round upon his saddle in order to cast a look of
paternal solicitude upon his grandson Vortigern, a lad of hardly
eighteen years, who was accompanied by the other of the two Frankish
warriors. The face of Vortigern, of exceptional beauty for a man, was
framed in long chestnut ringlets, that, escaping from his scarlet coif,
tumbled down below a chin that was as dainty as a woman's. His large
blue eyes, fringed with lashes black as his bold arched eyebrows, had an
air at once ingenuous and resolute. His red lips, shaded by the down of
adolescence, revealed at every smile two rows of teeth white as enamel.
A slightly aquiline nose, a fresh and pure complexion somewhat tanned by
the sun, completed the harmonious make-up of the youth's charming
visage. His clothes, made after the fashion of his grandfather's,
differed from them only in a touch of elegance that bespoke a mother's
hand, tenderly proud of her son's comely appearance. Accordingly, the
blue blouse of the lad was ornamented around the neck, over the
shoulders and at the extremities of the sleeves with embroideries of
white wool, while a calfskin belt, from which hung a sword with
polished hilt, encircled his supple waist. His linen hose half hid his
deerskin leggings, that were tightly laced to his nervy limbs and
rejoined his boots, made of tanned skin and equipped with large copper
spurs that glistened like gold. Although his right arm was held in a
scarf of some black material, Vortigern handled his horse with his left
hand with as much ease as skill. For traveling companion he had a young
warrior of agreeable mien, bold and mercurial, alert and frolicsome. The
mobility of his face recalled in nothing the stolidity of the German.
His name was Octave. Roman by birth, in appearance and character, his
inexhaustible Southern wit often succeeded in unwrinkling the brow of
his young companion. The latter, however, would soon again relapse into
a sort of silent and somber revery. Thus for some time absorbed in
sadness, he walked his horse slowly, when Octave broke in gaily in a
tone of friendly reproach:

"By Bacchus! You still are preoccupied and silent."

"I am thinking of my mother," answered the youth, smothering a sigh. "I
am thinking of my mother, of my sister and of my country."

"Come now; you should, on the contrary, chase away, such saddening
thoughts. To the devil with sadness. Long live joy."

"Oct