"Never, my son! He surely died in one of those civil wars, those disasters that continue to rend old Gaul under the reign of the descendants of Clovis."
"May our Brittany be ever spared the ills that so cruelly afflict the other provinces!"
"Our old Armorica has until now been able to preserve her independence and repel all attempts at invasion from the Franks. Why should we be any less able to hold our own in the future? The chiefs of our tribes, whom we choose ourselves, are brave. The chief of the chiefs whom these have chosen, old Kando, and who keeps watch at our frontiers, is an intrepid and experienced man. Did we not triumphantly repel all the attacks of the Franks until now?"
"And already three times have you been called to take up arms, Kervan, and were forced to leave me, together with your sister Roselyk and our son Yvon, in mortal fear," exclaimed Martha, Kervan's wife.
"Come, come, you poor timid Gallic woman. Remember our family legends—Margarid, Joel's wife; Meroë, the wife of Albinik the mariner; Ellen, the wife of Schanvoch—did they ever exhibit such weakness when their husbands took the field to fight for the freedom of Gaul?"
"Alas, no! And Margarid as well as Meroë met death on the battlefield, together with their husbands."
"While I have been only once wounded in battle against the accursed Franks, whom we cut to pieces on our frontier."
"But you seem, brother, to forget all about the danger that you ran during the last vintage. That was an odd vintage! It had to be garnered with the sword on the side and the axe ready in hand."
"Nonsense! Those were mere pleasure parties. We sallied forth gaily, and went beyond our own borders to harvest the crops of grapes that the Franks make their slaves raise in the region of Nantes. By the beard of Joel! He would have laughed a hearty laugh at the sight of our troops recrossing our frontier gaily escorting our large carts full of red grapes! What a pleasing sight! The yokes of our oxen, the bridles of the horses and even the iron of our lances were festooned with green vine leaves. And we marched to the rhythmic measure of the chant that we sang in chorus:
" 'The Franks, they shall not drink it,
This wine of our old Gaul—
No, the Franks, they shall not drink it!
We make our vintage, sword and pruning-hook in hand.
Our chariots, used in war, are our rolling presses.
It is not blood that crimsons deep their axle-trees,
It is the purple juice of ruddy grapes.
The Franks, they shall not drink it,
This wine of our old Gaul—
No, the Franks, they shall not drink it!' "