It took both the Frankish executioners to overpower Corbe. But neither his screams nor leaps could avail him. Seeing that he struggled violently in his bonds, the assistant knelt down upon the child's chest in order to pin him to the ground, while the executioner himself wound around his wrist the long hair of the young prince, and was thus able to draw the head towards himself so as to leave the neck distended and exposed to the knife. A second time the blade cut into the flesh; a second time the blood spurted out—and the corpse of Corbe rolled over upon that of his brother.
Only little Merovee was left. The child had remained on the straw pallet. Whether out of ignorance of the danger that he was in, or whether due to the thoughtlessness of infancy, when he saw the executioner's assistant approach him, he rose, walked towards him submissively, and referring to the resistance that Corbe offered, said with infantine innocence as he wiped off his tears:
"My brother Sigebert did not resist—I shall be as gentle as Sigebert—but do not hurt me."
Saying this the child then threw his little blonde head back and himself offered his neck to the executioner.
At that instant, a rider covered with dust burst into the house crying in a voice half choked with gladness:
"Great King! I have ridden ahead of Constable Herpon. He brings Queen Brunhild prisoner. After two days of the hottest chase, he succeeded in overtaking her at Orbe, in the foot-hills of the Jura."
"Oh, my mother! You will soon thrill with joy in your sepulchre. I have, at last, in my power the woman whom you were not able to smite!" exclaimed the son of Fredegonde. He then turned to the executioners who still held Merovee in their hands: "Do not kill that child—let him be taken to my tent. Wait for my orders. You do not know, oh, great Queen, what glory awaits you!" added Clotaire II with an expression of diabolic ferocity. And addressing Warnachaire: "Let us now go out and give a worthy reception to this daughter of a King, this wife of a King, this grandmother and great-grandmother of Kings—Brunhild, Queen of Burgundy and Austrasia! Come, come!"
CHAPTER II.
AT BAY.
What noise is that? It sounds like the distant and muffled tread and cries of a large multitude. Aye, large indeed is the multitude that is advancing towards the village of Ryonne, where the army of Clotaire II is encamped. Whence does that multitude proceed? Oh, it comes from far. It started as far away as the slopes of the Jura; it was swelled on the road by large numbers of the people who inhabited the cities, hamlets and villages that it crossed; slaves and colonists, young and old men, women and children, poured from their homes, their fields, their huts; at the risk of imprisonment, the lash and even mutilation at their return, slaves and colonists joined the swelling multitude; at the risk of the fatigue of the rapid march, that for some, lasted two days, for others, one day, half a day, two hours, or one hour, according to where they fell in line, city people left their pursuits and eagerly turned into the surging human stream. But what was it that attracted so eagerly the frantic, swelling crowd? It was these words, that flew from mouth to mouth: "Queen Brunhild is passing—she is taken prisoner to be delivered to Fredegonde's son!"