By reason of the extent of his domain, the fertility of his lands, and the 'great number of his well-governed vassals, the

The Horse of the Baron de Contrefort

Baron de Contrefort was the envy of all the lords in the region. None of them could boast of such prosperity or of such success in managing affairs. But the Baron de Contrefort cared nothing for all that made him the admiration of his neighbors. He tranquilly enjoyed his wealth and never sought to add to the lands that he had inherited or conquered in his youth. The baron was a man

without ambition and without pride except in one thing-his horse, Charles Martel.

Truly he was a noble animal, this Charles Martel-a war veteran, too, and comrade of the hundred exploits which the baron had performed as a young man. But that was a long time ago. As I have said, the baron had established himself upon his domain as a peaceable landholder; and he mounted the broad back of Charles Martel no more except for a gentle trot among the fertile fields of Contrefort. Clearly the steed as well as the master was no longer in the first springtime of his youth. Indeed his years numbered twenty-six, a somewhat advanced age for a horse. But in the opinion of the baron this longevity was only a proof of the excellence of Charles Martel. "It must be a rare horse," he was wont to say, that can attain twenty-six years." He thought that his horse like his wines became more precious every year. Hence, through all the country-side a man would have struck the baron sooner than suggest to him that the eye of Charles Martel did not shine with its former fire, or that a very little hill sufficed to make him lose his breath.

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One day when the baron, having resolved to superintend in person the work of the corvée, was riding toward his cornfields on his beloved courser, he chanced to meet his cousin the Baron de Bourdigne, lord of the domain contiguous to his own. Not only was the Baron de Bourdigne his first cousin, but he was also a good fellow, and the two had always been the best of friends. So they greeted one another cordially and exchanged a few observations upon the state of harvests and game. Then the Baron de Contrefort would have passed on to his cornfields; but at that moment, whether through thoughtlessness or through malice, the Baron de Bourdigne let fall these fatal words :

My cousin, it seems to me that Charles Martel appears a trifle weak in the knees."

That was all, but it was more than enough. Uttering a cry of rage, the Baron de Contrefort struck with all his strength the mocking face of his cousin; then he seized him in an iron grasp, tore him from the saddle, and flung him to the ground. Then touching with his spurs the venerable sides of Charles Martel he set off at a hard trot for Contrefort. As for the lord of Bourdigne, he gathered himself up painfully, followed with a furious glance the cloud of dust raised by the shambling hoofs

of Charles Martel, shook his fist with a sinister and threatening gesture and, mounting his horse, took at a gallop the road for Bourdigne.

In those virile days when a man was insulted he did not demand an apology; he avenged himself. Thus the outraged baron did not cease to urge on his horse until he reached the outer court of Bourdigne, where he drew rein before the little. chapel. Some of his dependents, seeing him leap from the saddle and dash headlong into the chapel, came running from their quarters. Pausing at the door, they found the baron kneeling before the altar, solemnly swearing not to rest before compassing the death of Charles Martel.

On reaching his castle the Baron de Contrefort descended from his horse and, having tenderly caressed him, he had him led away to the stables. Then he sent for the superior of the monks who lived on his estate and cared for the souls of his vassals; and while awaiting his arrival, he entered the hall of the castle, where he paced to and fro, gnawing his bristling moustache and muttering a thousand maledictions.

When the superior entered the hall, the baron turned upon him a look of savage joy.

"Father," said he, "we are about to fight. To-morrow my cousin the Baron de Bourdigne will be here with a great army." The superior rolled his little round eyes toward heaven.

"May the good God preserve us!" he cried. Then, changing his tone abruptly, "What the devil does my lord your cousin want with us?"

"He has insulted me atrociously!" roared the baron. "He has just said to me that Charles Martel is growing old."

"Infamous!" said the superior, who saw at once how the wind blew. "The noble Charles Martel! And what did you do ?"

"I struck him a terrible blow and cast him upon the ground," replied the baron.

"And why did you not kill him?" demanded the superior. "I forgot that," replied the baron. "What the devil, Father! When a man is angry he does not remember all these things. But that will come later. And now, prepare to fight. How this recalls the crusade that we made together in the days when you were not yet a monk! You had a terrible arm in those days, Father."

"It is the will of God," sighed the superior, philosophically. "If I must fight, let me fight my best. And in truth," continued the man of prayer, "there is a certain squire of the Baron de Bourdigne whom I could slay with great satisfaction. And now, to the siege!" And he rushed from the hall, tearing off his cassock as he ran.

The next day the castle of Contrefort stood ready for a siege. The drawbridge had been raised and the gates closed, and upon the great wall many sentinels kept watch. In the court, the baron and the superior, both armed to the teeth, reviewed their soldiers and ordered the last preparation for the combat. About noon a sentinel gave the alarm from his tower, and rushing to the wall, the men of Contrefort saw a multitude of warriors advancing upon the castle. The Baron de Contrefort and the superior ascended the watch-tower and gazed upon the approaching army. As the enemy drew nearer, the baron could distinguish his cousin of Bourdigne. His eye flashed, and his hand pressed the hilt of his sword.

The hostile army halted a few paces from the wall, and a herald advanced into the open space. Having sounded his trumpet he proclaimed that the Baron de Bourdigne was come to avenge his cousin's insult; that he had sworn the death of Charles Martel; and that if it should be necessary he would raze the castle of Contrefort to the ground.

"Ah, it is still a question of Charles Martel," cried the baron. "He must be led to a place of safety. Let me go!"

He descended the staircase swiftly, rushed to the stables, and after a moment he was seen crossing the court at a run, dragging by the halter Charles Martel who followed trotting. The baron made him enter the hall of the castle, where he shut him in, then returned breathless to his soldiers. At that moment the noise of a terrible shock was heard. It was the assault of the men of Bourdigne upon the barbican. Then followed a fierce combat. Well defended though it was, the barbican yielded at last to the furious onslaught of the enemy. Crossing the ditch, they forced the gate, and hewing down the defenders on all sides they pushed struggling into the court. Then uprose a terrible clamor. The monks rushed from their quarters, uttering cries of fear, and took refuge in the castle; while the warriors of Contrefort and of Bourdigne fell upon each other, and the clash of arms and the yells of the combatants swelled

deafening to heaven. The Baron de Contrefort and the superior were everywhere, fighting side by side, slashing and hewing like madmen. Soon it became evident that the soldiers of Bourdigne were gaining ground. Step by step the garrison of Contrefort were forced to give way. Contending every inch, they were borne back even to the castle. It was now a question of saving themselves as quickly as possible; so they took refuge behind the solid door of the castle, overpowered for the moment but unvanquished still.

The siege that followed this struggle was furious and determined. Nine days passed in assaults and repulses. During all this time Charles Martel stood in a corner of the hall, with his head drooping and his eyes half closed. The baron stole an occasional moment from fighting or watching only to caress this stolid casus belli and to whisper a few encouraging words in his ear.

"Only look at Charles Martel!" he cried one day. "What noble resignation!"

The superior considered the animal with a penetrating eye. "Was he fed yesterday?" he asked.

"He would not eat," replied the baron. "His noble spirit forbids him to eat in such a crisis."

The superior surveyed Charles Martel again, slapped him on the flank, and as the animal seemed sunk in oblivion, returned without further parley to the defense of the castle.

On the tenth day, the besiegers gained ground enormously; and before night it became evident that the castle must fall. The besiegers gave over their onslaughts for the moment, and again the herald advanced and sounded his trumpet.

"Baron de Contrefort," he cried in a loud voice, "deliver over to us the horse Charles Martel and we will spare you and your men, and we will not raze your castle to the ground."

The superior hastened to the side of the baron. He would have spoken, but at his chief's dark glance he fell back without a word. The baron ordered his herald to reply with a valiant defiance. Then turning to the superior he said, "There remains the dungeon. Let Charles Martel ascend to it.

He summoned two stable boys and ran to the horse, who stood motionless in his corner.

"Au revoir, Charles Martel," murmured the baron in his ear. "Trust yourself to these good boys. As for me, I go to defend