"Finally, in order to complete the scene, I just learn that a mountebank with a dancing bear and a monkey has been let into the burg. Neroweg proposed the amusement to King Chram, and the steward issued orders to admit the man and his animals in the banquet hall. They were sent for amid the shouts of glee of the whole convivial party. I want to go back quick and share the sport."
"Happy Sigefrid! He will see the gambols of the bear and the grimaces of the monkey."
"Now, boys, I promise you that after the King has enjoyed himself, I shall request the count to have the mountebank sent to this part of the house with his animals, so that you also may be amused by him."
"But always keep your eyes upon the prisoners."
"Be easy! And now to the wine, beer and venison! While we wait for the man, his bear and monkey, let us empty the pots in honor of the good King Chram and of Neroweg! To the assault of the victuals!"
The iron lamp that swung under the vaulted entrance of the antique _ergastula_ lighted up the group of Franks eating, laughing and drinking at the entrance. The lamp also threw its ruddy light across the iron railing and upon the Gallic prisoners who sat, gathered together, near the entrance of the prison, the rear of which remained in deepest darkness; nearest to the iron railing lay little Odille; the girl lay on her back with her arms crossed over her girlish bosom like a corpse about to be buried. Indeed the girl's pallor was that of a dying person. Near her and holding the child's head in her lap sat the bishopess, still handsome, although somewhat paler and reduced in flesh; she contemplated the girl with the loving eyes of a mother. A few steps away sat Ronan; his feet were wrapped in rags; his wrists were manacled; unable either to hold himself on his feet or on his knees he leaned his back against the underground wall. The Vagre looked at Odille with a tenderness equal to that of the bishopess. Manacled like his brother, whose torture he had shared, the hermit-laborer was seated near Ronan and seemed deeply moved at the tender care that the bishopess bestowed upon the young slave girl.
"Die, little Odille," said Ronan, "die, my child. It is better far that you die of the wound which your brave hand inflicted upon yourself, when, a month ago, you thought I was dead. It is better far that you die now, than to be burned alive to-morrow."