"Oh, my mother!" cried the unfortunate Berthoald casting upon the waters of the pond a look of most poignant pain.
"Your mother is now dead.... The jetty has disappeared under the waters, and still they rise.... Aye, your mother was drowned in the covered cart, where she was held confined with the other slaves."
"My heart breaks," murmured Berthoald, crushed by the weight of pain and despair: "My suffering is beyond endurance!"
"Are you so soon at the end of your strength?" cried Meroflede with a peal of infernal laughter. "Oh! no, no! You have not yet suffered enough. What! You stupid slave! You Gallic renegade! Cowardly liar, who brazenly deck yourself with the name of a noble Frank! What, did you imagine vengeance did not boil in my veins because you saw me smile last evening at the death of my ancestor, who was killed by a bandit of your race! Aye! I smiled because I thought how at daybreak I would have you witness from a distance the death agonies of your own mother! I was but preparing my vengeance."
"Monster of lewdness and ferocity!" cried Berthoald, making superhuman efforts to break his bonds. "I must punish you for your crimes!... Yes, by Hesus, I shall throttle you with my own hands!"
The abbess realized the impotence of Berthoald's fury, shrugged her shoulders and continued: "Your ancestor, the bandit, set fire a century and a half ago to the castle of my ancestor, Count Neroweg, and killed him with an axe. I reply to the fire with the inundation, and I drown your mother! As to the fate that awaits you, it will be terrible!"
"Did my mother know that I was the chief of the Franks who took her prisoner?"
"My vengeance lacked only that!"
"But who, miserable woman, could have told you what you know about my mother?"
"The Jew Mordecai."