"I am innocent! I am innocent!"

"And what about the judgment of G.o.d, blasphemer!" cried Justin, the accuser.

"Alas, I am nevertheless innocent--I did not steal the dish!"

"Hold your tongue, impious criminal! The trial that I shall now undergo with blind faith in the justice of the Lord will furnish further proof of your guilt!" retorted Justin.

"Good! Good, my dear son! Step aside from the miserable liar, thief and blasphemer! Your innocence will be quickly established; your piety will have its reward."

"Oh, I know it, good father! I long for the trial! May the holy name of G.o.d be glorified!"

"That dog, whom the judgment of our omnipotent Lord has p.r.o.nounced guilty, shall receive condign punishment. Now let us pa.s.s to the trial of the red-hot irons. Although the first trial has proved to us the guilt of that slave, there is nothing as yet to prove that the other fellow is innocent. They may be both accomplices in the theft of my silver dish."

"Oh, my n.o.ble seigneur, I am in no fear!" cried the cook, his face beaming with celestial confidence. "I bless the name of G.o.d for His having reserved to me the opportunity to bear witness to my profound faith in our holy Roman Catholic and Apostolic religion, and to triumph a second time over the accusations of the wicked. I know, O Lord, that, faithful to your commandments, I shall triumph with humility."

With the believer impatiently awaiting the new triumph of his innocence, the clerk proceeded, agreeable to the usage, to consecrate and adjure the red-hot irons in the brasier, just as he had conjured the water in the tank. He ordered the red-hot irons with the same solemn invocations that they respect the soles of the slave's feet if he was innocent, and to burn him to the bone if he was guilty of having robbed his seigneur.

The conjuration being done, the stable blacksmiths drew forth from the stove, with the aid of long tongs, the nine red-hot plow-shares that they held in readiness, and laid them down in a row flat upon the stone floor at a distance of two or three inches from one another. Ranged in that order, they presented a strange aspect--an enormous red-hot gridiron.

"Quick!" said the count. "The irons must not be allowed to cool off."

"What a jig will not the cub dance on that row of burning irons, if he was in the plot with the other thief to steal your dish!"

"And yet what a wondrous miracle is about to be accomplished if the cook is really innocent!" remarked another leude with impatient curiosity.

"To walk over red-hot plow-shares without burning one's feet! It takes the G.o.d of the Christians to accomplish such a miracle!"

Such was the curiosity of the Franks that their cruel wish to see the slave dance upon the red-hot irons struggled strongly against the wish to witness a wonderful miracle. Hardly was the last plow-share ranged in its place upon the floor than Neroweg, fearing to have them cool off, called out impatiently to Justin:

"Quick! Quick! Walk over them!"

"Go, my dear son; fear naught!" added the clerk.

"Oh, I am not afraid, good father," answered the cook in a voice of inspired exaltation; and crossing his arms over his breast, he cried out fervently: "Lord G.o.d, Thou readest in the hearts of men; Thou hast already borne witness to my innocence--give in favor of Thy servant a new proof of Thy infallible justice--order the burning irons to be as soft under my feet as if I trod upon a carpet of moss and flowers!"

And, his face beaming with serenity, and his eyes raised heavenward, the Gallic slave moved with firm steps towards the gridiron of red-hot plow-shares. During the short interval that elapsed before the accused exposed himself to the _judgment of G.o.d_, the count, his clerk and all the witnessing Franks seemed impressed by the slave's imperturbable confidence; they looked at one another; and Neroweg said in a low voice to the leudes that sat beside him:

"The cook must be truly innocent of the theft."

"Proceed! March on, my son in G.o.d!" cried the clerk at the moment when Justin was raising his foot over the first plow-share. "The justice of the Eternal is infallible. You said it--it is over a carpet of moss and flowers that your feet are to walk."

But our fervent Catholic had barely touched the red-hot iron with his feet when he emitted a frightful shriek. So intensely unbearable was the pain that he tripped and fell down forward on his knees and hands. As he thus tumbled over the red-hot plow-shares he gave himself fresh and deep burns all over his body, until, driven crazy, he made a desperate bound clean over the implements of his torture, and, roaring with pain, rolled down over the floor ten paces away, near where his companion Peter lay, tied hand and foot.

"Glory to the judgment of the Lord!" cried the leudes in chorus, struck with admiration. "Glory to Christ!"

"Did I not tell you so?" remarked the count complacently. "The two thieves were both in the plot to steal my silver dish. The ears of both shall be cropped to-morrow, and they shall be both put on the rack until they reveal the place where they hid the dish--"

"Hold your tongue, count!" cried Justin roaring with pain and rage. "The only thieves and plunderers around are yourself and your men. Had I stolen the dish, I would only have robbed a thief--but I did not take it--as truly as I here renounce the infamous religion that wrongly finds me guilty!"

"Wretch! Blasphemer of our holy religion! I order in the name of G.o.d--"

"Hold your tongue, too, priest--you shall no longer dupe me. Your alleged religion is but a lie and a fraud; it bears false witness against the innocent. Oh, how I suffer--how I suffer!"

"Your sufferings are but foretastes of the tortures that you will undergo in h.e.l.l, where you will burn everlastingly, you sacrilegious thief! Oh, seigneur count, if this impious and audacious wretch continues to blaspheme, we shall not be able to conjure away the misfortunes that he will draw upon your house."

Terrified at the sacrilegious utterances of the Gallic slave; pale, trembling and shuddering at the thought that, attracted by the dreadful blasphemies of the condemned man, the devil might suddenly appear in person, take possession of the malefactor and carry him straight to h.e.l.l, Neroweg thundered to the blacksmith at the stove:

"Are the tongs still in the brasier and red-hot?"

"Yes, seigneur, to command."

"The accursed fellow shall no longer blaspheme and place my burg in danger of being visited by the devil. Let the sacrilegious criminal be seized, and his tongue be burned out with the red-hot tongs. Tell me, clerk, do you believe the Lord will be pacified if I inflict that punishment upon the slave?"

"I believe, seigneur count, that there is no punishment too terrible for this accursed man who has renounced his religion, and called its holy priests impostors."

"Clerk, shall I have him quartered in order to be all the surer that the devils will be conjured away from my burg?"

"The first punishment that you mentioned will suffice--the accursed man will have been punished in the member that sinned--his criminal and blasphemous tongue; it will thereafter utter no more blasphemies."

The tongue of the Gallic slave was burned and pulled out with red-hot tongs. The count went back to the banquet hall with his leudes, and there proceeded to drink himself drunk before retiring to his wife in the women's apartment.

CHAPTER III.

THE SPECTRE OF WISIGARDE.

While her lord and master, Neroweg, together with his leudes, was drinking himself to the point of intoxication in the banquet hall, G.o.degisele, the count's fifth wife, sat in her chamber amidst her female slaves and diligently plied her distaff by the light of a copper lamp.

Although still young, G.o.degisele was of delicate health and frail. Her complexion was waxen; her long pale-blonde hair was braided in two strands and fell from under her _obbon_--the name given by the Franks to a sort of skull-cap woven of gold and silver thread--over her shoulders, that were bare like her arms. The advanced stage of pregnancy in which she was imparted to her sweet sad features an expression of suffering.

G.o.degisele wore the costume of the Frankish women of high condition--a long decollete robe with open and flowing sleeves, and held by a scarf around her now unshapely waist. Her arms were ornamented with gold bracelets, studded with precious stones, while a sea-eel necklace that derived its name from the fish, which, when captured, twists itself around the arm in such a manner that its head touches the tip of its tail--wound its golden, ruby-dotted coil around her neck. One thing there was about G.o.degisele's robe that rendered it incongruous. Its wearer was frail, slender and short, but the rich robe seemed to have been made for a large and robust woman. About a score of young wretchedly clad female slaves sat around G.o.degisele upon the leaves that the floor was strewn with, while the count's wife occupied an armed stool over which a silver embroidered carpet was thrown. Several of the girl slaves were handsome. Some worked at their distaffs like their mistress, others were engaged at their needles; occasionally they exchanged a few words in a low voice and in the Gallic tongue, which their mistress, being herself of Frankish extraction, understood poorly.

One of them, named Morise, a young and handsome girl with raven-black hair who was sold to a n.o.ble Frank when ten years of age, spoke the language of the conquerors fluently, on account of which G.o.degisele conversed with her in preference. At this moment the count's wife dropped her distaff which she held across her knees and said to the slave in a tremulous voice:

"And so, Morise, you saw her a.s.sa.s.sinated?"

"Yes, madam, I witnessed the sad scene. On that day she wore that same green robe with silver flowers that you have on, she also had on the handsome necklace and bracelets that I see on your arms and neck."

G.o.degisele shuddered and could not withhold a fearful glance from her bracelets and robe, the latter of which was twice too large for her.

"And--for what reason did he kill her, Morise? What was it that angered him?"

"He had drunk more than usual on that evening--he entered here, where we now are, unsteady of foot. It was winter--there was a fire in the hearth. His wife Wisigarde sat at a corner of the chimney. The seigneur count then had among us a washerwoman, named Martine, for his favorite.

He said to Martine: 'Come, come, confounded wench--let's to bed--and you, Wisigarde,' he added addressing his wife, 'take a lamp and light us.'"

"That, certainly, was a great shame upon Wisigarde."

"All the more, madam, seeing she was of a proud temper and impetuous nature. She often whipped and bit us, and she quarrelled a good deal with the seigneur count."

"What, Morise! Did she dare quarrel with him?"