It was a superb summer's night, that in which the army struck the road to Mayence. As it marched, the banks of the Rhine re-echoed to the chant of the bard:
| "This morning we say:— |
| ‘How many are there of these barbarous hordes, |
| Who thievishly aspire to rob us of land. |
| Of homes, of wives, and of sunshine? |
| Yes, how many are there of these Franks?’ |
| "This evening we'll say:— |
| ‘Make answer, thou sod, red drenched |
| In the blood of the stranger; |
| Make answer, ye deep-rolling waves of the Rhine; |
| Make answer, ye crows that flutter for carrion, |
| Make answer—make answer! |
| How many were they, |
| These robbers of land, of homes, of wives and of sunshine? |
| Aye, how many were there, |
| Of these blood-thirsty, ravenous Franks?’" |
CHAPTER XIV.
THE HOMEWARD RIDE.
In his haste to inform his mother of our splendid victory, Victorin passed the command of the troops to one of the oldest chiefs. We changed our tired horses for two fresh ones which were always led by the reins ready for Victorin's use, and he and I rode rapidly towards Mayence.
The night was serene; the moon shone superbly among myriads of stars—those unknown worlds where we shall proceed to live when we leave this world. Strange! In the very midst of the ineffable bliss that I experienced at the triumph of our army, a triumph that insured the peace and prosperity of Gaul; in the very midst of the pleasurable thoughts of soon again seeing your mother and you, my son, after a hard day's fighting; in the very midst of all these pleasing emotions a sudden fit of profound melancholy came over me, a painful presentiment saddened my heart.
In the fulness of my gratitude to the gods, I had raised my eyes to heaven in order to thank them for our success. The moon shed its brilliant light upon our path. I know not for what reason, but that moment my thoughts traveled back to our ancestors, and I recalled with sad piety all the glorious, the touching and the terrible deeds that they had done, and upon which also the sacred luminary of Gaul shed its never-ceasing light generations and generations ago. The sacrifice of Hena; the journey of Albinik the mariner and his wife Meroë to Caesar's camp, across a region that was heroically given up to the flames by our fathers during their war with the Romans; the nocturnal expeditions of Sylvest the slave to the secret meetings of the Sons of the Mistletoe and to the palace of Faustina, his escape and flight from the circus of Orange where he came near being devoured by ferocious beasts; and finally the bold insurrections, the formidable revolts, the signal for which was ever given by the courses of the moon, as prearranged by our venerable druids; all these events that lay in the distant past rose at that moment before my mind like pale phantoms of the past.
The merry voice of Victorin drew me from my meditations:
"What are you dreaming about? How can you, one of the vanquishers in this fair day's battle, be as mute as one of the vanquished?"
"Victorin, I was thinking of days that are no more—of events that took place during the centuries that have rolled by—"