Aye, slavery thus rendered the rich Gaul, who was ever accustomed to comforts, the brother in misery and sorrow of the poor Gaul who previously knew what arduous work was. Aye, the woman of white hands and delicate complexion was thrown together with the woman whose hands toil had roughened and whose complexion the sun had tanned—both were rendered by slavery sisters in dishonor and shame, and were cast weeping, or, if they resisted, bleeding into the bed of the Frankish seigneur, whom, on the Sunday following a Gallic priest would regularly give remission for his sins!
Oh, our fathers! Oh, our mothers! By all the sorrows that you underwent! Oh, our brothers and our sisters, by all the sorrows that you now undergo! Oh, our sons! Oh, our daughters! By the dregs of the cup of humiliation and disgrace that you are made to drain! Oh, you all, by the tears that drop from your eyes, by the laceration of your bodies—you will be avenged! You will be avenged upon these abhorred Franks!
But let us step into the burg of the seigneur. By the faith of a Vagre! By the sweat and the blood of our fathers that have moistened and crimsoned every beam, every stone of this structure—it is a comfortable, spacious and handsome building, this burg of the seigneur count! Twelve well rounded oaken beams support the portico; it leads directly into the mahl, as these barbarous chiefs style the tribunal where they dispense their seigniorial justice—a vast, spacious hall, in the rear of which, and raised on a platform, is the seat of the count, and the benches of the leudes who assist him in the ceremony. There he holds his mahl and judges the crimes committed on his domains. In a corner of the room a stove, a rack and pincers are seen—no justice without torture and execution. In yonder opposite corner and even with the floor is a wide tank full of water and deep enough for a man to drown in. Near the tank lie nine plow-shares. These are all instruments for judicial trials; they are prescribed by the Salic Law, the law of the Franks, to which Gaul is now subject, seeing the land is in the power of Frankish conquerors.
And yonder door, made of solid oak, thick as a hand's palm, and covered with sheets of iron and enormous nails—that door is the door of the chamber in which the treasures of the noble seigneur are kept. Only he keeps the key. In that apartment are the large boxes, likewise ribbed with iron, where he locks up his gold and silver sous, his precious stones, his costly vases, both sacred and profane, his necklaces, his bracelets, his gold-hilted parade sword, his handsome bridle with its silver bit and his elaborately silver-ornamented saddle with stirrups of the same metal—all stolen from this noble land of Gaul.
Let us enter the banquet hall. It is night. By my faith! Those are curious candelabras. They are made of flesh and bone. Ten slaves—all burnt by the sun, worn and barely clad in rags—are ranked five on one side, five on the other of the table. They stand motionless as statues and hold aloft large flaming torches of wax that barely serve to light the place. A double row of rounded oak trunks, a sort of rustic colonnade, divides the spacious hall into three compartments along its full length, reaching at one end the door of the mahl, and at the other to the count's chamber, which, in turn communicates with the apartments of Godegisele and her women.
Between the two rows of pillars stands the table of the count and of the leudes, his peers. To the right and left, and on the other sides of the two rows of pillars, stand two other tables—one is reserved for the warriors of inferior rank, the other for the principal servants of the count: his seneschal, his equerry, his chamberlains, seeing that the seigneurs imitate closely the customs and style of the royal courts. In the four corners of the hall, the floor of which is, obedient to custom, strewn with green leaves in summer, and straw in winter, stand four large barrels, two of hydromel, one of beer, and one of herbed wine, Auvergne wine mixed with spices and absinthe—a beverage pressed by the slaves of the burg. Along the wainscoting hang the count's hunting trophies, together with his arms of war and the chase—heads of stags, does and wild goats, all garnished with their horns; wild boars' and wolves' heads with their fangs exposed. The flesh and skin have been removed from these trophies; nothing remains but the whitened bones. Boar-spears, pikes, hunting-knives and horns, fishing-nets, falcon coifs, implements of war, lances, francisques or double edged axes, swords, bucklers and shields painted in garish colors—all these are ranged along the walls. On the table lie spread sheep and wild boars roasted whole, mountains of ham and smoked venison, avalanches of cabbage in vinegar, the latter being a favorite dish with the Franks; chunks of beef, mutton and veal of the cattle fattened in the count's yards; small game, poultry, carps and pikes, the latter of which are of extraordinary size; vegetables, fruit and cheese raised and prepared on the fertile fields and farms of Auvergne; bowls and amphoras, incessantly replenished by butlers who run from the tables to the barrels and back again, are as speedily emptied by the Franks with the aid of wild bulls' horns that serve as their usual goblets. The horn used by Neroweg must have belonged to an animal of monstrous size. It is black and hooped from top to bottom in gold and silver. From time to time the seigneur makes a sign, whereupon several slaves standing at one end of the hall with drums and hunting horns, strike up an infernal music, which, however, is less discordant and deafening than the cries and laughter of the blockish Teutons, gorged gluttons, most of whom are at an advanced state of intoxication.
Who produced these wines, these mountains of venison, of fish, of beef, of pork, of mutton, of game, of poultry, of vegetables and fruit? Gaul! The country that is cultivated and rendered fruitful by a population of starvelings, whose representatives, wan with hunger and privation in the midst of such plenty, officiate as living torches to light the banquet. That heap of good things is produced by men and women who, huddled in mud and straw huts, are, at that very moment, and in utter exhaustion, partaking of a tasteless pittance.
Behold the Franks, gorged with food and wine; obscene jokes and challenges to drink and drink still more are bandied backward and forward; the hall is a roar of boisterous laughter; beyond all others the seigneur count is hilarious. At his side sits his clerk, who serves as his secretary and officiates in the oratory of the burg. According to the newly introduced custom that the Church authorized, the Frankish seigneurs are allowed to keep a priest and chapel in their houses. The clerk has been assigned to Neroweg by Cautin. When making the assignment, the wily prelate said to the stupid barbarian: "This clerk can neither grant you remission for the sins that you may commit, nor can he snatch you from the claws of Satan; only I have that power; but the constant presence of a priest at your side will render the attempts of the demon more difficult; that will afford you time, in urgent cases, to wait for my arrival without danger of your being carried off to hell."
The boisterous mirthfulness of the leudes is at its height. Neroweg wishes to speak. Three times he strikes on the table with the handle of his scramasax, the name given by the barbarians to the knife used at table, and habitually worn at the warrior's belt. Silence, or some degree of silence ensues. The count is to speak. With both his elbows leaning upon the table, he strokes and restrokes his long, reddish, greasy and wine-soaked moustache between his thumb and index. The posture and gesture always announces with him some scheme of vicious cruelty. The leudes are aware of this and greet his words in advance with gross and confident laughter. Without saying a word, Neroweg points out to his peers one of the slaves who, motionless, has been holding up a torch at the banquet. The fellow is a poor old man, wrinkled and haggard; his hair and beard are white and long; for only clothing he wears a tattered blouse and hose which expose his skin, yellow and tanned like parchment; his hose do not reach his bony knees; his bare and lank legs, scarred by the brambles among which he is forced to work, seem hardly able to support him. Compelled, like the rest of his torch-bearing companions, to hold up the light with outstretched arm, and the whip of the Frankish overseer being ever ready to enforce the order with merciless cruelty, he felt his lean arm grow numb, weaken and tremble despite all he could do to prevent it.
After pointing at the slave, Neroweg turned to his leudes with cruel hilarity and said: