The fire has been kindled at a hundred different spots by the Breton Gauls with the dry heather of the moor. Driven by the violent gale the girdle of flame soon embraces the horizon from the east to the south, from the slopes of Men-Brez to the skirt of the forest. It advances with rapid strides like the waves of the incoming tide lashed by a furious wind. Terrified at the sight of the burning waves that are rushing upon them from the right with the swiftness of a hurricane, the Frankish ranks waver for a moment. To their left, runs a deep river; behind them, rises the forest of Cardik; before them the plateau slopes towards the valley of Lokfern. Himself running for life towards the valley, Louis the Pious thereby gives to his troops the signal to flee. They follow their king tumultuously, anxious only to leave the moor behind them before the flames, that now invade the plateau from end to end, entirely cut off their retreat. Impatient to escape the danger, the cavalry breaks ranks, follows the example set by the king, traverses the cohorts of the infantry, throws them down, and rides rough-shod over them. The disorder, the tumult, the terror are at their height. The soldiers struggle with the horsemen and with one another. The fiery wave advances steadily; it advances faster than it can be run away from. The swiftest steed cannot cope with it. The all-embracing sheet of fire reaches first the soldiers whom the cavalry has thrown down and left wounded behind; it speedily envelopes the bulk of the army. In an instant the distracted cohorts are seen up to their waists in the midst of the flames.
By the valor of our fathers, it is the hell of the damned in this world! Frightful! torture! Excruciating pain! A cheering sight for the eyes of a Breton Gaul, harassed by invaders, to behold his merciless assailers in. Frankish horsemen cased in iron and fallen from their steeds, roast within their red-hot armor like tortoises in their shell. The footmen jump and leap to withdraw their nether extremities from the embrace of the caressing flames. But the flames never leave them; the flames gain the lead. Their feet and legs are grilled, refuse their support, and the men drop into the furnace emitting cries of despair. The horses fare no better despite their breathless gallop; they feel their flanks and buttocks devoured by the flames; they become savage. They are seized with a vertigo; they rear, plunge and fall over upon their riders. Horses and riders roll down into the brasier at their feet. The horses neigh piteously, the riders moan or utter curses. An immense concert of imprecations, of fierce cries of pain and rage rises heavenward with the flames of the magnificent hecatomb of Frankish warriors!
Oh! Beautiful to the eye is the moor of Kennor, still ruddy and smoking an hour after it is set on fire and consumed to the very root of its heather! Splendid brasier three leagues wide, strewn with thousands of Frankish bodies, shapeless, charred. Warm quarry above which already flocks of carrion-crows from the forest of Cardik are hovering! Glory to you, Bretons! More than a third of the Frankish army met death on the moor of Kennor.
"What a war! What a war!" also exclaims Louis the Pious.
Aye, a merciless war; a holy war; a thrice holy war, waged by a people in defence of their freedom, their homes, their fields, their hearths; Oh, ancient land of the Gauls! Oh, old Armorica, sacred mother! Everything turns into a weapon in the hands of your rugged children against their barbarous invaders! Rocks, precipices, marshes, woods, moors on fire! Oh, Brittany, betrayed by those of your own children who succumbed to the wiles of the Catholic priests, stabbed at your heart by the sword of the Frankish kings, and pouring out the generous heart blood of your children, perchance, after all, you will feel the yoke of the conquerer on your neck! But the bones of your enemies, crushed, burned and drowned in the struggle, will tell to our descendants the tale of a resistance that Armorica offered to her casqued and mitred invaders!
CHAPTER VIII.
THE VALLEY OF LOKFERN.
Decimated by the conflagration of the moor of Kennor, the Frankish army flees in disorder in the direction of the valley of Lokfern, that lies slightly below the vast plateau on which an hour before the three Frankish divisions have joined, confident that their trials are ended. Escaped from the disaster of the conflagration and carried onward by the impetuosity of their steeds, a portion of the Frankish cavalry that follows Louis the Pious in his precipitate flight, arrives at the confines of the plateau. Driven by a terror that left them no thought but to outstrip one another, the fleeing riders seem to give no heed to the sight that unfolds before them. At the foot of the slope that they are about to descend, stands the numerous Breton cavalry, drawn up in battle array, under the command of Morvan and Vortigern. It is only a cavalry of rustics, yet intrepid, veterans in warfare, perfectly mounted. Carried by the headlong course of their horses beyond the edge of the plateau and down the slope to the valley, the Franks rush in confused order upon the Breton cavalry that is drawn up as if to bar their passage; they rush onward, either unable to restrain their still frightened steeds, or conceiving a vague hope of crushing the opposing Bretons under the irresistible violence of their impetuous descent. The Breton cavalry, however, instead of waiting for the Franks, quickly parts in two corps, one commanded by Morvan, the other by Vortigern. One corps seems to flee to the right, the other to the left. The space from the foot of the hill to the river Scoer being thus left free by the sudden and rapid manœuvre of the Gauls, most of the Frankish horsemen find themselves hardly able to rein in their horses in time to escape falling into the water. A moment of disorder follows. It is turned to advantage by Morvan and Vortigern. The Frankish riders being dispersed and engaged with their steeds, Vortigern and Morvan turn about and fall upon them. They take the foe upon the flanks, right and left; charge upon them with fury; make havoc among them. Most of them are sabred to death, or have their heads beaten in with axes, others are driven into the river. During the fierce melee, the remnant of the infantry of Louis the Pious, still fleeing from the furnace of the moor of Kennor, arrives upon the spot in disorder. Trained in the trade of massacre, they promptly reform their ranks and pour down upon the Breton cavalry. At first victorious, these are finally crushed, overwhelmed by vastly superior numbers. On the other side of the river the rustic Gallic infantry still continue to hold their ground—husbandmen, woo-men and shepherds armed with pikes, scythes and axes, and many of them supplied with bows and slings. Behind this mass of warriors, and within an enclosure defended by barricades of heaped up trunks of trees and ditches, are assembled the women and children of the combatants. All their families have fled distracted before the invaders, carrying their valuables in their flight, and now await with indescribable agony the issue of this last battle.
Weep! Weep, Brittany! and yet be proud of your glory! Your sons, crushed down by numbers, resisted to their last breath; all have fallen wounded or dead in defence of their freedom!
The river is fordable for infantry at only one place. The monk who accompanies Neroweg points out the passage to the troops of Louis the Pious. They cross it immediately after the annihilation of the cavalry of Morvan. The Armoricans who are drawn up on the opposite bank of the Scoer heroically defend the ground inch by inch, man to man, ever falling back toward the fortified enclosure that is the last refuge of our families. Marching over heaps of corpses, the soldiery of Louis the Pious finally assail the fortified enclosure, all its defenders having been killed or wounded. The enclosure is taken. According to their custom, the Franks slaughter the children, put the women and maids to the torture of infamous treatment, and lead them away captive to the interior of Gaul. Ermond the Black, a monk and familiar of Louis the Pious in this impious war, wrote its account in Latin verse. The death of Morvan is narrated in the poem as follows: