"I rely upon it. Fetch me my horse and my daughter's. You are to accompany us to the hunting pavilion, and thence to Aix-la-Chapelle. I will place you in command of the escort that I give these two hostages to return to their own country. I shall furnish you with an order to the commander of my army in Brittany. You will start to-morrow, early, with the escort to the pavilion of the forest, and you will thence depart for Armorica."
Octave bowed, and the Emperor proceeded, addressing Amael:
"The moon has risen. It sheds sufficient light upon the route. Jump upon your horse, with your grandson. Follow this avenue of trees until you reach a clearing. Wait there. You will shortly be sent for. I shall despatch my messengers to take you to the pavilion, where you are to stay until your departure early to-morrow morning. And now, Adieu!"
Amael returned to his grandson, whom he found in a deep study, seated on the stump of a tree that bordered the route. The lad was silently weeping with his face hidden in his hands, and heard not the steps of his grandfather approaching him.
"Come, my boy," said Amael to him in a mild and grave voice. "Let us to horse, and depart."
"Depart!" exclaimed Vortigern, with a tremor, rising impetuously to his feet and wiping with his hand the tears that moistened his face.
"Yes, my boy! To-morrow we start for Brittany, where you will see again your mother and sister. The nobility of your conduct has borne its fruit. We are free. Charles recalls his troops from Brittany."
* * * * * * *
Shortly after our return home from Aix-la-Chapelle, my grandfather, Amael, wrote the above narrative, which I have faithfully joined to the preceding ones of our family. Myself, Vortigern, buried my grandfather not long after at the ripe age of one hundred and five years, shortly after my own marriage with the loving Josseline. Charles the Great died at Aix-la-Chapelle in the year 814.