Celtic Gaul is already in the power of Rome; the Belgic tribes, alarmed at the approaching danger, arm against the universal, tyrant.

Inflammable, quick to strike, but too fickle to prevail against so powerful a foe, they hastily form a league of almost every clan.

At the first blow of Caesar's sword, the frail confederacy falls asunder like a rope of sand.

The tribes scatter in all directions.
Nearly all are soon defeated, and sue for mercy.

The Nervii, true to the German blood in their veins, swear to die rather than surrender.