Indeed, she stood unsupported, and took two steps towards the King as if to prove to him that she felt neither weakness nor fear. Thus Clotaire II and Brunhild found themselves face to face in the center of a circle that drew closer and closer. The vast crowd was hushed in profound silence; with bated breath the issue of the terrible interview was awaited. With his arms crossed over his heaving breast, Fredegonde's son contemplated his victim wrapt in silent and savage joy. Brunhild broke the silence. With head erect and intrepid mien she said in her sharp, penetrating voice that resounded clearly at a distance:
"First of all, good morning to good Warnachaire, the cowardly soldier, who ordered my army to flee. Thanks to your infamous treachery, here am I—I, the daughter, wife and mother of Kings—with my arms pinioned, my face bruised with the fist-blows given me, soiled with dung, mud and ordure thrown at me by the people along the road.—Triumph, son of Fredegonde! Triumph, young man! For two days the populace have been whelming with hisses, contempt and dirt the Frankish royalty, your own, the royalty of your own family in my person! You have vanquished me, but never will the royalty recover from the blow that you have dealt me!"
"Glorious King," said the Bishop of Troyes to Clotaire II in a low voice, "order that woman to be gagged; her tongue is more venomous than an asp's."
"On the contrary, I wish her to speak; I shall enjoy the torture that her pride undergoes."
While the prelate and the King were exchanging these words, Brunhild had proceeded with an ever more resonant voice, waving her head at the crowd of warriors:
"Stupid people! Besotted people!—You respect us, you fear us, us of the royal family,—and yet it is a royal face that you see before you, bruised with fist-blows, like that of any vile slave! The mother of your King—that Fredegonde who was prostituted to all the lackeys of Chilperic's palace—must often have looked as I do now, every time that she was beaten by one of her vulgar associates!"
"Dare you speak of prostitution, you old she-wolf bleached in debauchery!" cried Clotaire II in a no less resonant voice than Brunhild.
"Your mother Fredegonde had my husband Sigebert and my son Childebert stabbed to death by her pages—"
"And you, miscreant, did not you have Lupence, the Bishop of St. Privat murdered by Count Oabale, one of your lovers?"
"And did not Fredegonde in turn cause Pretextat to be assassinated in the basilica of Rouen, as a punishment for his having married me to your brother Merovee—"