The Poniard's Hilt; Or, Karadeucq and Ronan. A Tale of Bagauders and Vagres

"While I have been only once wounded in battle against the accursed Franks, whom we cut to pieces on our frontier."

"But you seem, brother, to forget all about the danger that you ran during the last vintage. That was an odd vintage! It had to be garnered with the sword on the side and the axe ready in hand."

"Nonsense! Those were mere pleasure parties. We sallied forth gaily, and went beyond our own borders to harvest the crops of grapes that the Franks make their slaves raise in the region of Nantes. By the beard of Joel! He would have laughed a hearty laugh at the sight of our troops recrossing our frontier gaily escorting our large carts full of red grapes! What a pleasing sight! The yokes of our oxen, the bridles of the horses and even the iron of our lances were festooned with green vine leaves. And we marched to the rhythmic measure of the chant that we sang in chorus:

" 'The Franks, they shall not drink it,
This wine of our old Gaul —
No, the Franks, they shall not drink it!
We make our vintage, sword and pruning-hook in hand.
Our chariots, used in war, are our rolling presses.
It is not blood that crimsons deep their axle-trees,
It is the purple juice of ruddy grapes.
The Franks, they shall not drink it,
This wine of our old Gaul —
No, the Franks, they shall not drink it!' "

"Father, I shall be sixteen years old next vintage in the country of Nantes – will you not take me with you?"

"Keep still, Yvon! Make not such requests. They frighten me," cried the boy's mother.

"Roselyk, dear sister, do not my wife's words remind you of our mother scolding our brother Karadeucq because he wished to see the Korrigans? She used to say: 'Hold your tongue, bad boy!' "

"Alas, brother, all mothers' hearts are alike."

"Father, I hear steps outside – it must be old Gildas. He promised to come this evening and teach us a new chant that he learned from a traveling tailor. Yes, it is he! Good evening, old Gildas!"

"Good evening, my boy; good evening to all."

"Shut the door, old Gildas. The air is cold; come near the fire."

"Kervan, I am not alone. A stranger accompanies me. He knocked at my door and asked for the house where Kervan, the son of Jocelyn, dwells. The traveler comes from Vannes, and even further. He wishes to see you."

"Why does he not step in?"

"He is shaking off the snow that covers him from head to foot."

"Good God, Gildas! Is the man a peddler?"

"Roselyk, Roselyk, does not that also sound like mother? You are right, all mothers' hearts are alike."

"No, Martha; the young man does not look like a peddler to me. Judging by his resolute mien, he would sooner be taken for a soldier. He carries a long dagger in his belt – here he is himself."

"Step in, traveler. Did you ask for the dwelling of Kervan, the son of Jocelyn? Do you wish to see Kervan? I am Kervan."

"Greeting to you and yours, Kervan. But why do you look at me so wonderingly?"

"Roselyk, look well at this young man – look at his eyes, his forehead, his bearing, his face."

"Oh, brother, one sees strange resemblances at times. One would think that our brother Karadeucq himself stood before us – that is how he looked at the time that he ran away."

"Roselyk, do you not notice that the stranger seems strangely affected? There are tears in his eyes. Say, young man, are you the son of Karadeucq?"

The answer of Ronan the Vagre was to throw himself on the neck of his father's brother, after which he embraced no less effusively Martha, Roselyk and Yvon. After the tears were dried and the first emotion appeased, the first words that simultaneously parted from the lips of Kervan and Roselyk were:

"And our brother, our beloved Karadeucq? What tidings do you bring us from him?"

At this question Ronan the Vagre remained silent; his head drooped and tears again suffused his eyes.

Deep silence reigned hereat among the descendants of Joel. All eyes wept.

Kervan was the first to overcome his grief, and broke the silence, addressing his nephew:

"Is it long since my brother Karadeucq died?"

"Three months, dear uncle."

"Was his end peaceful? Did he remember me and Roselyk, who loved him so dearly?"

"His last words were: 'I die without having been able to fulfill my part of the duty imposed by my ancestor Joel upon his descendants. Promise me, my son Ronan, you who are familiar with my own life and that of your brother Loysik, to fulfill that duty in my stead, and to write down, without concealing aught, both the good and the evil that we have done. When you have done that, promise me that you will proceed to the cradle of our family, near the sacred stones of Karnak. My father Jocelyn and my mother Madalen are certainly dead by this time. You shall deliver the narrative that will have been written, either to my good brother Kervan, if he survives our aged parents, or to his eldest son. If Kervan should have died without posterity, ask his heirs or his wife's to deliver to you, obedient to the orders of our ancestor Joel, our family's legends and relics, and you are then to transmit them to your descendants. If, however, my brother Kervan and my sweet sister Roselyk still live, tell them that I die with their names upon my lips and dear to my heart.' Such were the last words uttered by my father."

"And have you the account of your own and my brother's lives?"

"Here it is," answered Ronan opening his traveling bag.

And he drew from it a parchment which he handed over to Kervan. The latter took the scroll with deep emotion, while, taking from his belt the long poniard with an iron hilt that Loysik and after him the Master of the Hounds had worn, and on the hilt of which were engraven the Saxon word Ghilde and the two Gallic words Friendship, Community, Ronan passed the weapon to his uncle, saying:

"It was my father's wish that this poniard be added to our family relics. When you will have read this narrative you will admit that the weapon deserves being placed together with the other articles that our ancestors have bequeathed to us – pious relics, that I must ask you to show me and which I shall contemplate with veneration. It is now getting late. I must leave you again day after to-morrow morning. I must, therefore, request you to read this very evening the narrative that I have delivered to you. I shall relate to you to-morrow what remains to be said and that I have not had the time to write down. I, on my part, have a strong wish to read our family chronicles, the principal incidents of which my father often narrated to me."

"Come," said Kervan taking up a lamp.

Ronan followed him. The two stepped into one of the chambers of the house. On a table lay a small iron coffer, the gift of Victoria the Great to Schanvoch. Kervan took from the coffer the gold sickle of Hena, the Virgin of the Isle of Sen, the little brass bell left by Guilhern, Sylvest's iron collar, Genevieve's silver cross and the casque's lark of Victoria the Great. He deposited all these articles near the poniard of Loysik. Kervan also produced from the little coffer the several family parchments, ranked them in order before Ronan, and then rejoined his family.

That long winter's night was spent by the Vagre reading the legends of his family.

On their part, Kervan, his wife and sister prolonged their reading until it was almost dawn. Contrary to their wont, they did not rise with the day. With the impressions of his family history fresh upon his mind, Ronan visited next morning the environs of the house. He found at every step mementos of his ancestors – the wide field on which his ancestor and his two sons, Guilhern and Mikael, indulged in the virile exercises of the mahrek-ha-droad still spread before his eyes; the living spring, at the edge of which Sylvest and Syomara had in their infantine games built their little hut to protect themselves from the heat of the sun, still babbled along its course.

The Vagre was drawn from his revery by the voice of his father's brother.

"Ronan," said Kervan, "the frost has hardened the ground and the cattle can not be let out to-day. We shall have wheat to pound in the house. Let us go in. While we are at work you can narrate to us the events that complete your narrative. I promise you that I shall faithfully transcribe them and append them to the narrative that you wrote."

CHAPTER II

ON THE HILL NEAR MARCIGNY

The family of Kervan are reassembled together with Ronan in the large hall of the farmhouse. After the morning repast the women take up their distaffs, or some other domestic work. The men pound the wheat, which they pour out of one set of large bags and then drop into another. Huge logs of beech and oak burn in the fireplace, seeing that outside the cold is intense. While each pursues his work in silence they cast from time to time inquisitive looks at Ronan, the Vagre son of the Bagauder.

"Uncle," says Ronan, "did you read through the narrative that I gave you yesterday?"