that race. Proceed, monk."

"Mordecai consented to take the girl, for whom he has a place; but he
does not want either the father or the mother. I, accordingly, sold him
the girl, reserving the right of having her punished before delivery to
him. I shall sell her parents to some other slave-dealer."

"Seigneur!" cried Septimine breaking out into a fresh flood of tears,
"slavery is a cruel condition, but it seems less hard when borne in the
company of those whom we love--"

"The bargain is closed," said the abbot. "Mordecai paid me earnest
money; he has my word; he is waiting for the girl."

When Berthoald heard that the Jew was in the convent he trembled anew,
retreated into a niche in the wall, and threw the cape of his long
Arabian cloak over his casque so as to conceal his face. He then
addressed the Frankish chief in a hurried voice like a man in fear of
some imminent danger and anxious to leave the place:

"Charles, before I bid you good-bye, perhaps for a long time, cap the
climax of your generosity towards me. Give the father and mother of this
child their freedom, and buy her back from the Jew to prevent her being
separated from her parents. Guilty though she was, it was only pity that
led her astray. You are about to place vigilant soldiers in this place.
The little prince's escape will not need to be feared."

Hearing the tender words of Berthoald, Septimine raised her face to him,
full with ineffable gratitude.

"Rest assured, Berthoald," said Charles; "and you, my girl, rise; this
abbey, where I wish to establish my warriors, shall have three slaves
less. I can refuse nothing to this valiant officer."

"Take this, my child," said the young man putting several Arabian gold
pieces into the hand of Septimine. "This is to help you, your father and
mother to live. May you be happy! Bless the generosity of Charles
Martel; and remember me occasionally."

With an unconscious movement that absolutely controlled her will,
Septimine took the hand that Berthoald reached out to her, and without
taking the gold pieces that he tendered and that rolled down over the
floor, she kissed the young man's hand with such passionate
thankfulness, that his own eyes were moistened with tears. Charles
Martel noticed the circumstance, and pointing at the young folks, cried
with the boisterous laugh peculiar to himself:

"Upon the word of Martel, I believe he weeps!"

Berthoald pulled the cape of his cloak further down over