Part 11 (2/2)
”Enough blood has flown without that which is still to flow. But the hour has come when the blood of Gaul should flow only for freedom. The blood that is shed for liberty is also an agreeable offering to the All-Powerful.”
It was not without great effort that the ewaghs prevented the threatened rush of voluntary human sacrifices. The pyre of Julyan and Armel burned until the flames had nothing more to feed upon.
Again profound silence fell upon the crowd. Hena, the virgin of the Isle of Sen, had ascended the third pyre.
Joel and Margarid, their three sons, Guilhern, Albinik and Mikael, Guilhern's wife and little children all of whom so dearly loved Hena, all her relatives and all the members of her tribe held one another in a close embrace, and said to one another:
”There is Hena.... There is our Hena!”
As the virgin of the Isle of Sen stood upon the pyre that was ornamented with white veils, greens and flowers, the crowds of the tribes cried in one voice: ”How beautiful she is!... How holy!”
Joel writes it now down in all sincerity. His daughter Hena was indeed very beautiful as she stood erect on the pyre, lighted by the mellow light of the moon and resplendent in her black tunic, her blonde hair and her green chaplet, while her arms, whiter than ivory, embraced her gold harp!
The bards ordered silence.
The virgin of the Isle of Sen sang in a voice as pure as her own soul:
”The daughter of Joel and Margarid comes to offer gladly her life as a sacrifice to Hesus!
”Oh, All-Powerful! From the stranger deliver the soil of our father!
”Gauls of Britanny, you have the lance and the sword!
”The daughter of Joel and Margarid has but her blood. She offers it voluntarily to Hesus!
”Oh, Almighty G.o.d! Render invincible the Gallic lance and sword! Oh, Hesus, take my blood, it is yours ... save our sacred fatherland!”
The eldest of the female druids stood all this while on the pyre behind Hena with the sacred knife in her hand. When Hena's chant was ended, the knife glistened in the air and struck the virgin of the Isle of Sen.
Her mother and her brothers, all the members of her tribe and her father Joel saw Hena fall upon her knees, cross her arms, turn her celestial face towards the moon, and cry with a still sonorous voice:
”Hesus ... Hesus ... by the blood that flows.... Mercy for Gaul!”
”Gauls, by this blood that flows, victory to our arms!”
Thus the sacrifice of Hena was consummated amidst the religious admiration of the tribes. All repeated the last words of the brave virgin:
”Hesus, mercy for Gaul!... Gauls, victory to our arms!”
Several young men, being fired with enthusiasm by the heroic example and beauty of Hena sought to kill themselves upon her pyre in order to be re-born with her. The ewaghs held them back. The flames soon enveloped the pyre and Hena vanished in their dazzling splendor. A few minutes later there was nothing left of the virgin and her pyre but a heap of ashes. A high wind sat in from the sea and dispersed the atoms. The virgin of the Isle of Sen, brilliant and pure as the flame that consumed her, had vanished into s.p.a.ce to be re-born and to await beyond for the arrival of those whom she had loved.
The cymbals and harps resounded anew, and the chief of the bards struck up the chant:
”To arms, ye Gauls, to arms!
”The innocent blood of a virgin flowed for your sakes, and shall not yours flow for the fatherland! To arms! The Romans are here. Strike, Gauls, strike at their heads! Strike hard! See the enemy's blood flow like a stream! It rises up to your knees! Courage! Strike hard! Gauls, strike the Romans! Still harder! Harder still! You see the enemy's blood extend like a lake! It rises up to your chests! Courage! Strike still harder, Gauls! Strike the Romans! Strike harder still! You will rest to-morrow.... To-morrow Gaul will be free! Let, to-day, from the Loire to the ocean, but one cry resound--'To arms!'”
As if carried away by the breath of war, all the tribes dispersed, running to their arms. The moon had gone down; dark night set in. But from all parts of the woods, from the bottoms of the valleys, from the tops of the hills where the signal fires were burning, a thousand voices echoed and re-echoed the chant of the bards:
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