Adalo, too, rose hastily. "Will you let him go in this threatening mood? Shall I follow?"
But the Duke remained unmoved. "I fear no danger from this man." A shudder ran through the youth's limbs and he started, as the old chief, lightly raising the spear, added: "He is dedicated to Odin."
"You will--?"
"Not I. He will--must sacrifice himself. Do not wonder. Wait."
"And the news about the Goths, Duke? Were you in earnest? Or did you merely wish to encourage the faint-hearted Ebarbold?"
"Aha, do you credit me with such craft in the good work?" asked the old man, smiling?
"You are Odin's favorite."
"It is as I said. One of the men in our ranks has been serving in the army of the other Emperor; he came home on leave of absence, and said that such countless throngs of Goths had crossed the Danube and were assailing that Emperor so closely that he certainly could not march here to his young nephew's assistance. Nay, the nephew's whole army will perhaps be compelled to hasten to the uncle's relief. Because I knew this I permitted, nay, commanded our young leaders to cross the frontier early this spring to renew the war. But do you keep silence about it. And open your eyes wide in the Roman camp to-morrow: do not think only of the child, much as I hope you may see her, perhaps ransom her, or save her by stratagem. For, by Frigga's girdle, she is lovely! and I would fain see the fairest ornament of our land at liberty again."
Adalo clasped the Duke's right hand; but the latter withdrew it, adding sternly:
"Note carefully the height of the wall, the depth of the ditch, the position of the gates, the number of the tents, the direction of the paths between them, so that you can report everything accurately to me. Now go, and send Zercho the bondman. No, do not ask what I want with him. Obey!"
Adalo left the tent. His heart was throbbing violently. "I shall see her; ransom her! I will give all my property; nay, if necessary, my estate, the land I have inherited--or sell it. But will she desire to be ransomed? Will she not prefer to go with the clever-tongued Italian to his sunny home? And what if he will not release her? Well, then there will at least be one way to bring her forth, known only to the Duke and my father's oldest son."
Fiercely agitated by such thoughts, he sent the bondman, who was crouching beside the fire, to the tent. The slave stood timidly before the mighty soldier.
"How long is it since Suomar bought you?"
"That's hard for Zercho to say. I can hardly count beyond the fingers of both hands, and there are more years than fingers. The little elf was very small then. My master got me cheap, for the Romans had dragged many, many of us as prisoners from the beautiful pastures of the Tibiscus. He exchanged a horse and a net full of fish for me with the dealer over in Vindonissa."
"Suomar has praised you to me. He has never been obliged to flog you."
Zercho made a wry face and rubbed his ear. "Yes, my lord--once."
"And why was that?"
"When I first saw the little elf--she was then a child about seven years old--I thought she was the wood maiden, red Vila, threw myself on the ground and shut my eyes; for whoever sees her is blinded. Then he shouted a word in your language which I have often heard since,--it means an animal with horns,--and struck me. But never afterwards." The slave had uttered all this very rapidly; he was afraid of the Duke, and kept on talking to deaden his fear.
"You are faithful to the young girl?"
"I would be cut to pieces with the ploughshare for her."
"You plucked me by the cloak when you made your report in the presence of the Adeling and the old woman. You wished to tell me something that they ought not to know."
"That is true, great Father! How did you discover--?"
"That was not hard to guess. But I suspect more--the girl did not become the captive of the kindhearted chatterer, Ausonius, but of another Roman."
The slave looked up at him in fright. "Did your Odin, your terrible god who knows all things, reveal this to you?"
"No, he only gave me the power of reading men's eyes. So she is another's prisoner; I suspected it. And you did not wish to plunge into still deeper grief both the old grandmother and the Adeling; for he loves the child ardently."
"You know that too?"
"One doesn't need Odin's assistance for it," replied the Duke, smiling. "I was young once too. You wished to spare the youth?"
"Yes, great Father. He would wear himself out with rage and grief. Yet he can do nothing to save her."
"He would only destroy himself, and perhaps our best hope of victory, by some desperate deed. I am pleased with you, slave. Keep silence as before. But Ausonius was there too?"
"Yes, the foreigner who stayed so long in Arbor several years ago. But he didn't seize the child; it was another, younger man."
"Did you not hear his name? Was it anything like Saturninus?"
"My lord, his name was not spoken, or I did not hear it. He was a fine-looking man in glittering armor."
"But he took his prisoner to Ausonius?"
"Yes. Yet he did not lift her on Ausonius's white horse, as the latter seemed to ask, but swung the struggling girl upon another--a black one--perhaps, yes, probably his own."
The Duke remained silent and thoughtful. At last he said: "The Adeling is not to reach the Roman camp until twilight is closing in tomorrow. Before he rides forth he will receive some directions from me. Tell him so. And"--here he lowered his voice to a whisper, much to the surprise of the slave, since there was no one in the tent--"if a faithful and cunning man should venture to introduce himself or some one else in disguise into the hostile camp and tell me what he saw there,--for I fear they will not give Adalo much chance to look about him,--and this man should be a slave, I would buy his freedom."
"Great Father!" exclaimed the Sarmatian, throwing himself prostrate before the Duke and trying to kiss his feet.
The old man angrily thrust him back with the handle of his spear: "Are you a dog, that you want to lick my feet?"
"Zercho is a Jazyge," said the bondman, rising and rubbing his bruised shins. "Thus my people honor one who is worthy of honor."
"But we sons of the Ases do not bend the knee even to the mighty King of Asgard when we call upon him and desire to honor him. Now go. Perhaps it will be well that Adalo should not know what is to happen."
"He must not hear of it until after it has succeeded, for he would not let the others whom I must have go with me."
"I do not wish to know in advance how the work is to be done. Say outside that no one is to enter till I strike the shield."
The slave had scarcely gone when the Duke drew back the linen curtain whose folds fell to the ground behind him, shutting off the rear of the tent, used as a sleeping-room.
A man with long gray hair, scarcely younger than Hariowald, came forward glancing cautiously around him.
"We are alone, Ebarvin. Repeat your King's words exactly again. For consider, you must repeat them to his face, on oath, before the assembly of the people, if he deny them."
"He will not deny them," said the graybeard sorrowfully. "He is too proud to submit to you, but he is also too proud to lie."
"It is a pity," replied the Duke, curtly. "He was a fearless man."
"You speak as if he were numbered with the dead!" cried the other, shuddering.
"I do not see how he can survive. Or, do you believe he will change his choice?"
Ebarvin silently shook his head.
"How long have you borne his shield?"
"Ever since hehada shield. I carried his father's, too," sighed the man.
"I know it, Ebarvin. And," he asked craftily, as if in reproach, while his gray eye blazed with a searching light, "and yet you betrayed him?"
The man gripped his short sword angrily.
"Betray? I accuse him openly, after I have often warned him loyally, after threatening that I would tell you all. He laughed at it; he would not believe me."
"And why do you do it? You have loved him."
"Why? And you ask that--you, who taught it to me, to us all? True, it was not you alone--first necessity! Why? Because only this league of the Alemanni can save us from ruin, from the shame of bondage. Why? Oh, Duke, the oaths with which you bound us years ago, before the ash of Odin, are terrible. Ebarvin will not forswear himself; I will not, a perjured man, drift through endless nights down the horrible river of Hel among corpses, serpents, and swords. And I have learned through a long life that we must stand together, or the Romans will destroy us province by province. Oh, I would slay my own son if, disobedient to the Duke and the Council of the people, he tried to burst our league asunder."
Up sprang the old chieftain; his eye flashed with delight. Raising the spear aloft with his left hand, he struck the right one on the clansman's shoulder: "I thank you for those words, Ebarvin! And I thank thee, thou Mighty One in the clouds! If such a spirit lives in the Alemanni, the league will never be sundered."
It was really as Zercho the bondman had believed: Bissula had become the captive, not of Ausonius, but another; and his captive she remained. To the extreme surprise, nay, barely repressed indignation of the Prefect of Gaul, the younger man had asserted his claim according to the rights of war. Ausonius had no claims whatever to the prisoner; that was clear. His nephew undoubtedly might have raised them, and at first he did make the attempt. But he grew strangely silent when the Tribune--scarcely in absolute harmony with the truth--said in his uncle's presence: "The girl had escaped again. I was the first to catch her finally. Shall I call her, that she may tell you the whole story herself?"
Herculanus, with a venomous glance, left the tent.
But Ausonius did not understand the imperious rudeness of the brave soldier who was usually so devoted to him. When the Tribune curtly appealed to the right of war, Ausonius, deeply offended, pondered over all the reasons which, as he thought, must induce his friend not to yield his legal right in this instance to him. The poet, seeking motives for the act, of course first grasped the nearest: all the men in the camp gazed at the peculiar beauty of the child with unconcealed admiration. It was no wonder then that the Illyrian, in the full vigor of manhood, should also be seized with ardent love for the beautiful creature who had fallen into his hands and, without really having any evil design, wanted to keep her in his power until either from affection or obedience the captive should yield to her master.
But this anxiety, which at first had weighed heavily upon him, was soon relieved. With the keen distrust of jealousy, he watched his rival sharply at every meeting; but even suspicion could discover nothing that would have warranted this conjecture. Quiet, unmoved, and steadfast as ever was the Tribune's bearing in her presence, which he neither shunned nor sought, but treated with indifference. He looked into the wonderful eyes no more frequently than occasion required, and his glance was calm, his voice did not tremble. So Ausonius regarded his friend's act as a soldier's strange whim, and did not doubt that he would soon give it up. But this proved an error.
On returning to the camp Ausonius entreated his friend, without renouncing his right of possession, to place the young girl in the tent next to the Prefect's, now occupied by slaves and freedwomen, whom he would remove. But Saturninus insisted that Bissula should be lodged among the wives of the freedmen and female slaves who occupied some tents a long distance from the Prefect's. The young girl herself paid little heed to the discussion between the two Romans, whose meaning she scarcely understood.
Released by the Tribune from the fear of death, and soothed by the presence of her honored friend, her young cheerful heart soon accommodated itself to the new condition of affairs,--not through recklessness, but through childish ignorance of the perils which possibly threatened her. Her grandmother was not discovered; her faithful servant had not been captured; she herself was certainly secure in the presence and under the eyes of her friend, the most aristocratic man in the Roman camp. He would not let a hair of her head be harmed, she knew.
True, the thought weighed heavily upon her heart as soon as she was captured that she herself was solely to blame for her misfortune. If she had obeyed the well-meant counsel--she was on the verge of tears; experience had taught the value of the advice--she would now have been safe and sheltered with her grandmother, though also with Adalo. And owing him a debt of gratitude! She crushed the tears on her long lashes. No, she would not admit that he was right. Now she owed the haughty Adeling nothing: that was certainly an advantage. "And"--she shook her waving locks back defiantly--"they won't eat me here! Only don't be afraid, Bissula," she said to herself; "and don't submit to anything!"
She had trembled only a moment after her escape from Herculanus, when her powerful deliverer measured her whole dainty figure with a look under which she lowered her eyes in confusion. But when she again raised those innocent child-eyes, the expression had vanished. And it never returned.
Her master allowed her to spend the whole day with her "Father Ausonius": only when it grew dark he appeared, with inexorable firmness, to take her away; and he went with her himself to the tent assigned to her, before which he stationed one of his Illyrian countrymen as a sentinel all night.
Bissula never saw her friend's nephew, whom she feared, alone. She confidently expected the restoration of her liberty when the camp should be broken up and the Romans should withdraw from the country. There would be no fighting, Ausonius repeatedly told her. So the light-hearted girl regarded her captivity, which had lost all its terrors, as an adventure that afforded her an opportunity for the conversations with her friend which she had missed so long.
Many of her young playmates had lived as hostages and probably as captives in Roman camps and in the fortresses on the southern shore, and been restored to liberty uninjured when truce or peace was declared. That she could be detained or carried away against her will she did not fear: the most powerful man in the camp was her protector. Yet this peril constantly threatened her more and more closely.
Ausonius kept a sort of diary, in which before going to sleep he recorded events, impressions, sketches of poems, and short bits of verse--a custom whose regular observance he scarcely omitted even in camp. A touch of pedantry was one of his characteristics. Yet the diary was not a monologue, rather a sort of dialogue; for he addressed it in the form of a letter to his oldest and most intimate friend, Arius Paulus of Bigerri, rhetorician, but also an old soldier. Every three months he collected what he had written and forwarded it to him to receive his criticisms and answers on the margin of the manuscript when returned.
So, during these days of involuntary leisure he wrote.
V. BEFORE THE KALENDS OF SEPTEMBER.
Ausonius sends greetings to his Paulus.
I wrote to you yesterday about the charming Barbarian child. Child? She is one no longer. The delicate, yet lovely outlines of her form have developed into exquisite roundness. And Barbarian? If she ever was one she has ceased to be so, since Ausonius taught her the pomp of the Latin language. How shall I describe her to you without drawing, no, painting her? For it is precisely the charm of her coloring that is so peerless. If only I had brought with me Paralos, my Ionian slave, who painted the nymphs so exquisitely--you know--in my little dining hall yonder, in the villa in the Province Noverus! And the expression--the vivacity--in those ever varying features, now full of mischievous wrath, now mirth, now jest, and anon of a sorrowful yearning which to me is full of mystery.
And the dainty figure! Recently her leather sandals stuck fast in the mire outside the camp ditch. How white and charming were the little feet! How can they even support the figure, lightly as it floats along? The muse which so long has shunned me has again returned in the form of this Suabian girl: a fairer metamorphosis than ever Ovid dreamed. Verses well up in my mind ceaselessly. Just listen!
"Nature had dowered Bissula with charms which the greatest of artistsVainly to picture would strive. Doubtless to full many anotherJustice he might do by use of the pigments of red and of white lead:Coloring like hers, alas! will forever escape him, unless he should paintHer face with a lily's lustre, on which the breath of a rose hath rested."
"Nature had dowered Bissula with charms which the greatest of artists
Vainly to picture would strive. Doubtless to full many another
Justice he might do by use of the pigments of red and of white lead:
Coloring like hers, alas! will forever escape him, unless he should paint
Her face with a lily's lustre, on which the breath of a rose hath rested."
Ah, my friend, with the feelings that come to me, I am often ashamed of the half century I bear with me. Fain would I sacrifice something to Anteros--most willingly my gray hairs!
A short time ago the little maid amazed us all (Saturninus was even more surprised than I; for I am already beginning to believe her almost supernatural) by showing strategic insight. It was mentioned that while making a tour on the southwestern wall I had saved her little hut from burning, while our cohorts usually flung the torch with eager zeal into the wooden houses of the Barbarians. Then Saturninus remarked that by accident another building had been spared, a house with a lofty gable roof rising on a hill farther toward the southwest. None of our reconnoitring parties had marched in that direction. My nephew called one of his men and ordered two of them to ride over the next day and burn the dwelling down.
Suddenly the girl, with flashing eyes, cried: "How stupid!" and laughed. Courtesy is not her favorite virtue, and she and my nephew waste little love on each other. "How stupid!" she repeated, "The building is very solid, the fence inclosing it very high; it is almost a citadel like your camp here; and it is between you and the lake--to which you must fly if my people come. You could fortify yourselves there again, if you are forced to leave here as the fox darts from its burrow."
Herculanus laughed sneeringly; but Saturninus cast a glance from the top of the wall to that hill and the lofty building, and said in the quiet tone which quells contradiction: "I myself had resolved to have the dwelling burned to-morrow. But the child is right. The solid house will not be burned, but perhaps, later, occupied--when the ships arrive."
If those ships would only come! The eager Tribune is fairly consumed with impatience for action. Already he has gone across the lake repeatedly in a wretched rotting boat belonging to the Barbarians, which we found hidden among the thickest growth of rushes near Bissula's hut, and urged Nannienus to hasten. But the latter might truthfully say with Homer: "Why dost thou urge one who is willing?" We cannot make up in days for the neglect of months. The Emperor's own miserable officials do him more harm than the Barbarians. And we do not even know where these strange defenders of the country have vanished.
Ah, that reminds me of another anecdote of the little maid. How constantly she steals into my thoughts! Of course--in jest and earnest--we have tried to obtain information about the hiding--places of the enemy from the only captive of whose possession hitherto we can boast; but there we "victors" met with small success, as you may guess.
"Where are your heroes hiding?" I asked once laughing, toward the end of a meal in my tent. "Truly, their heroism is as hard to find as themselves."
"They will hardly have told this little maid," replied Saturninus. "For Barbarian women can probably keep secrets no better than Roman ones. She does not know."
"Yes, she does!" cried the rogue, pouting defiantly.
"Indeed? Then we'll question you," I cried, "on the rack."
"That isn't necessary. I am willing to tell."
"Well, where are they?" asked the Tribune seriously.
She glided out of the tent, thrust her head saucily through the opening, and laughed mischievously: "They dwell with Odin and the nixie in the lake. Search for them there yourself!" And she vanished.
Her favorite resting-place is at the foot of a huge pine-tree; it is sacred, dedicated to a German goddess who, according to the description, probably corresponds with Isis. I have repeatedly found her there. Once she was swinging among the branches like a little bird. She begged me not to betray her hiding-place to the others--the Tribune and my nephew. She often liked to dream there all alone. Well, I certainly shall not betray her. IfIknow where to look for her, the others shall not find her against her will.
IV. BEFORE THE KALENDS OF SEPTEMBER.
I regretted the artist's absence a short time since, and cannot get him to come here. But perhaps Bissula will go later to the artist, to Burdigala. How I wished it long ago! Oh, Paulus, if only I could show her to you! The more I write of her and think of her, the more she pleases me. Or perhaps the contrary is the case. I will write and think of her no more.
* * * * *
You will not believe, my dear friend, how much I enjoy the military life I have not witnessed for so long. I understand little about it, but the pomp and pride and power of war stir me very strongly.
It is a pleasure to see the rule of a man like Saturninus. He cannot scan a verse of Alcæus, but he knows how to arrange a camp according to the demands and advantages of the location, better than I can write an Alcæan strophe. Here, on this steep hillside in the midst of the Barbarian forests, he had applied Frontinus's rules to the given space most admirably. It would please an old soldier like you to see our camp, the strength of wall and moat, the arrangement of the spaces between the tents, the distribution of horse and foot-soldiers, luggage, and camp followers.
III. BEFORE THE KALENDS OF SEPTEMBER.
And why should you not see it? For what purpose has Athene or the clever Phœnicians taught us the art of writing? I begged Saturninus to dictate to his fat slave scribe a sketch of our whole camp, with all the points important for defence and the distribution of our troops. I will put it on the papyrus.
How stately is the entrance! Four squadrons of mailed warriors at the Porta Decumana, and all the baggage also piled up there. The wall eight feet high; the ditch five feet deep. The weakest point is the northwest corner, so the best troops are there: Batavian and spearmen of the Emperor's Thracian Guard: etc.
I will not repeat here in detail what the inclosure will contain; but the paper is not yet finished. He has taken it away to make the drawing more accurate.
II. BEFORE THE KALENDS OF SEPTEMBER.
Ah, what avails dissimulation, playing hide and seek with myself? If you drive her out with a pitchfork, Nature will always return, says the Bandusian fellow. I am trying to make you--and myself--believe that my thoughts are on ditch and wall and mailed soldiers. It is not true. I think only of the little maid. Her image alone hovers before my eyes day and night. It is already half decided that you shall see her.
When this expedition is over, I at any rate shall return to Gaul, perhaps the whole army; for the Emperor Valens seems to be able to deal with the Goths without needing our aid; he does not ask for us. Then I can take the little maid as my guest for a short visit to Burdigala.
True, she is still considered the Tribune's slave. It is an odd caprice of the valiant soldier. No, no, my Paulus! It is not what you suppose that influences him. I have watched him suspiciously, almost jealously, as sharply as a father--or can it be a lover? But I did him injustice--or too much honor? He has nothing in his head except those invisible Alemanni and our ships, still delayed at Arbor.
* * * * *
Yet why only for a visit? Why should she not remain in my house always to beautify my advancing years with the roseate dawn of her youth?
Yes. Eos, Aurora: it is a fitting symbol for her. So young, so full of the dewy freshness of the morning, with her ruddy curling locks floating saucily around her.
Perhaps, now that she has grown more sensible, she will joyfully accept the offer I made when she was a child: to go with me as my adopted daughter.--Daughter? That is not the right word; no longer the right word: she has blossomed into womanhood: I should not think of lifting her on my knee, as I did years ago. She has become too mature.
And I am still too young to regard her only as a daughter.--Rather as a brother, her loving brother who rejoices in her beauty. No, it will not do.
A short time ago her round arm brushed me (the German women go with bare arms); a fiery thrill darted through my veins. I can scarcely doubt it, I---
My feelings for her do not concern other people. I might at any rate first take her with me--and then adopt her? No matter what the legal form may be, I am determined to keep her near me always.
I can no longer do without her charming presence; everything would grow dark and cold. Already I shiver at the thought of again living alone with the icy-hearted Herculanus.
She has become my muse! A barbarian one, do you scoff? Aha, are these lines so barbaric?
"Incarnate joy! Caressing bliss! O thou embodiment of sportive grace!How the Barbarian maid the fair ones of Latium hath vanquished!Bissula! Plebeian her name may sound in the ears of aliens:But to Ausonius it echoes with harmonies sweet and bewitching."
"Incarnate joy! Caressing bliss! O thou embodiment of sportive grace!
How the Barbarian maid the fair ones of Latium hath vanquished!
Bissula! Plebeian her name may sound in the ears of aliens:
But to Ausonius it echoes with harmonies sweet and bewitching."
It is useless to conceal it from myself any longer, and what I admit to myself must also be confessed to you, my Paulus, my second self, at the same moment. Alas, I fear you read it long ago from these words in prose and verse.
I beseech you not to shake your cool, cautious head as usual over your "too youthful" Ausonius: I hope my heart will throb warmly till it ceases to beat.
I know all you will say--of course against it. For you would speak in favor only if you had seen her. Yet I rejoice that you are not here: I have no desire to be warned.
True, it is one thing to toy with the sweet illusion within my own breast and to the friend who will keep my secret; and quite another to transfer it to practical reality.
My thoughts are contradictory. I am fifty--ah no; fifty-two years old! But what happiness it will be for the young girl to share not only my wealth but the whole Latin civilization with me! She is a pagan. Pshaw! The baptismal water will no more wash away her charm than it has driven the pagan Muses from me. She can believe after baptism precisely what she believed before. And she shall offer sacrifices to golden Aphrodite and to Hymen!
I hesitate. She is very fond of me, but I often find her dreaming, gazing out with yearning eyes beyond the walls of the camp: strangely enough, it is not eastward in the direction of her home, but always toward the northwest. At that point the wall rises almost to the height of her huge pine tree, whose branches reach the ground: I again found her hidden among them yesterday. She climbs so far up among the boughs that she can look over the wall to the distant hills, and hides among the dense foliage like a martin.
I discovered her with much difficulty,--twilight was gathering,--and when at my call she slipped down I thought I saw tears in her eyes. But the crimson glow of sunset had probably dazzled me; I did not see them when she stood on the ground by my side, though she looked graver than usual.
"What do you want?" I asked.
"Liberty," was her swift answer.
Perhaps I looked perplexed or angry, for she went on hastily: "Forgive me! I was foolish. I know that if you set me free now, before the close of the war, I might fall into the hands of other Romans before reaching my people. And I am not ungrateful. How kind you are to me! Yet I often feel so homesick--for--for--oh, I don't know myself!"
Then I said in jest,--for never before, and even now not seriously, had the idea entered my mind,--"For a lover?"
She started back like a little red serpent. I have never seen her so angry, though the hot temper of the little creature boils over often enough. She stamped her tiny foot, the blood crimsoned her cheeks, and she vehemently exclaimed:
"A lover? The 'red biting cat'? I have no heart! How shouldIlove?"
Then turning her back on me defiantly she ran off to her tent and did not appear again that evening. But I am glad to learn from her own lips that no bond of affection will hold her fast in this Barbarian land, if I really decide to take her with me to Burdigala.
This possible obstacle to my wishes entered my thoughts rather late, you will tell me. But it was because I considered her a child so long. Later I daily felt in my own heart the feeling within growing stronger. No, no, this girl is a child no longer, but a maiden ready for her bridal.
The sweet wish--I scarcely repress it--is rapidly maturing. And with this dear girl I shall be sure of one thing: she will not marry me for my wealth, which I anxiously fear from our Gallic maidens. As to the widows, I feel gripes in my stomach whenever I think of them.
I will be cautious not to startle the timid child; for how can the Barbarian maiden dream of such an honor as even being invited as my guest to Burdigala? It is inconceivable that she should refuse: now that she has grown to womanhood. If she does, then--But no, surely it will not be necessary. And when she has once tasted the rich, beautiful life there, she will no longer desire to return to this wilderness. Then ere long I can read aloud to her these verses which now I dare entrust only to my friend:
"Bissula, fair maid born and reared in the cold land beyond the Rhine,Bissula, who bloomed so near the source of the Danube:Captive of war, thou hast, when released from bondage, made captiveThy conqueror: his heart became the prisoner's booty.Of a mother's care bereft, ne'er hast thou suffered a mistress:When thou a captive wast made, a mistress thou didst become,Though thou by Roman favor, O German, wast thus transformed.Still hast thou thine eyes' deep azure, still hast thou thy hair's red gold.Dual thou seemest now, and with dual charms adornLatium's tongue thy mind, and Suabia's grace thy form."
"Bissula, fair maid born and reared in the cold land beyond the Rhine,
Bissula, who bloomed so near the source of the Danube:
Captive of war, thou hast, when released from bondage, made captive
Thy conqueror: his heart became the prisoner's booty.
Of a mother's care bereft, ne'er hast thou suffered a mistress:
When thou a captive wast made, a mistress thou didst become,
Though thou by Roman favor, O German, wast thus transformed.
Still hast thou thine eyes' deep azure, still hast thou thy hair's red gold.
Dual thou seemest now, and with dual charms adorn
Latium's tongue thy mind, and Suabia's grace thy form."
How do you like them, my dear friend? I hope they are not bad. At least they pleasemeextremely, and you know I am not vain.
Now imagine how these melodious lines must gratify her--her who is their inspiration.
The morning after Ausonius had made this last entry in his diary, Bissula, as usual, shared the first meal in his tent with the uncle and nephew. The Prefect of Gaul was in excellent spirits, often jested, talked a great deal, had his goblet repeatedly filled by the slave who was his cup-bearer, and remarked again that the campaign would soon be over. "When the ships come," he added in conclusion, "the Barbarians will sue for peace." Glancing up merrily his eyes chanced to rest on the young girl's face. To his surprise a mocking, nay, angry smile was hovering around lips pouting in defiance; her brow was frowning, and she made no reply. The conversation flagged. Herculanus watched the rising cloud sharply, and eagerly fanned the flame.
"What?" he cried. "Peace? Bondage; extirpation! The Cæsar will soon drag the last remaining Alemanni before his triumphal chariot to the Capitol: the leaders will be strangled, the rest sold cheap: a German for a cabbage."
Tears of rage filled Bissula's eyes. She could find no words; fury choked her voice. She searched her thoughts, her memory, for aid and defence. Adalo was the only name which came to her. "Yes, Adalo, if you were here, or if I had your swift speech, whispered by Odin! Stay--his verse--his verse of defiance. How, did it run?" She closed her eyes to think, resting her elbows on the table, with both little clenched hands pressed against her throbbing brow.
"I will offer a toast," Herculanus went on, raising his goblet; "pledge me. You, the pupil of Ausonius, are surely one of us: Disgrace and death to the Alemanni!" Bissula sprang up. Her blue eyes were blazing; her red tresses fluttered around her head; a blow from her clenched fist sent the silver goblet rattling on the floor; and, in the language of her people, she cried loudly:
"Woe to the Latins!Vengeance on Romans!Break down their castles,Shatter their strongholds,Swing ye the swordTill the base robbers flee!All this regionHath Odin givenTo his sons of victory--To us, the Alemanni!
"Woe to the Latins!
Vengeance on Romans!
Break down their castles,
Shatter their strongholds,
Swing ye the sword
Till the base robbers flee!
All this region
Hath Odin given
To his sons of victory--
To us, the Alemanni!
"Oh, I thank you, I thank you, Adalo!" And she rushed out of the tent.
"How foolish!" Ausonius said reproachfully to his nephew. "How inhospitable! How could you so incense our guest?"
"Guest? Our, that is, the Illyrian's, slave-girl. But forgive me, uncle. It shall not happen again. How little a Barbarian woman suits the society of Romans! Our thoughts, our wishes--she is implacably hostile to all. And Adalo? I have already heard the name. Isn't it--?"
"No matter who it is," thundered the uncle. "But you are my nephew, and have insulted, roused the lovely girl to furious rage at my table, in my tent. How would you in Burdigala--"
A gloomy, significant glance from the young Roman checked his thoughtless speech.
"You must appease her. Now leave me; I don't wish to see you again to-day. Or stay--I will follow her myself. Poor little thing!"
Ausonius rose excitedly from the couch and hurried out. Herculanus and the slave who acted as cup-bearer remained alone in the tent.
"Is it so already?" muttered the former angrily through his set teeth. "Does the childish infatuated old fool reveal his plans so openly? To work, Davus! Well or ill--to work! Have you the hemlock? Have you enough?"
"I think it will do. If it fail the first time, you still have some in the other little vial?" Herculanus nodded. The slave went on:
"He complained yesterday of all sorts of bad feelings. I'll risk it soon, before he gets well again. But--one thing more--the Barbarian girl will sleep alone to-night."
"What? Not in the tent with the teamsters' wives?
"No; a contagious eruption broke out there last night: I heard Saturninus give the order to pitch another tent at once on the opposite side for the prisoner."
"But he will have her closely guarded."
"To-night he is going on a reconnoitring expedition with all his incorruptible Illyrians. Batavians are to be on duty: they are fond of drinking; perhaps--"
"Silence! This ring as a reward for the news. We don't yet know whether the plot against the old man will succeed, so we'll have two strings ready for our bow. And I hate her. I don't hate him; only I must have my inheritance quickly. So to-night! Hush, Prosper is coming! About the poison--in the two little vials--we'll say more later; you know where and when. First we'll wait to see what this night will bring forth."
* * * * *
Meanwhile kind-hearted Ausonius had vainly sought the angry fugitive. He looked eagerly down the long wide streets of the camp which crossed in a square at the prætorium--in vain. Now he hoped to find her in her favorite hiding-place, the secluded spot with the tall fir-tree; but it was empty. Nor was she perched among the branches: he scanned them carefully.
Shaking his head he walked on still farther toward the northwest, to the wall itself. Here he heard voices raised as if disputing, a soldier's and Bissula's. Now he saw Rignomer, the Batavian sentry, with lowered spear forcing back the slowly retreating girl. The man spoke half in German, half in vulgar Latin; for at that time the Batavians and Alemanni, though both Germans, found it as hard to understand one another as the sailors of the Lower Rhine and the peasants of Lake Constance do at the present day.
"Back, you red elf, you beautiful Idise, you nymph, and never try it again! It would be a pity to hurt yourself. The wall is too high and the ditch too deep--" Then the soldier recognized the Prefect, saluted him, and went back to the top of the wall.
Bissula, noticing the respectful salute, had turned and, still violently agitated, rushed to Ausonius, exclaiming: "Father, set me free at once! at once!"
Ausonius shook his head. "Consider--"
"If you really catch defenceless girls and threaten to kill them by the sword, you glorious Romans, as your nephew--"
"When did he do that?"
"Never mind! Send me with a safe escort, with a letter from you beyond your outposts."
"Where shall I send you?"
Bissula remained silent a short time. Her face was deeply flushed.
"Where? To the place where you always gaze in your reveries? Out yonder?"
"No," she replied, setting her teeth; "eastward, to my home. Then I will take care of myself."
"Child, you must stay till the war is over."
"No, I must go," she answered. "I belong to my people, not to you. It is not right, it is abominable, for me to sleep safe here in your protection, drink Roman wine from golden goblets, while my kindred are suffering want and danger. Let me go!" She raised her hand. The gesture was meant to be an entreaty, but it resembled a threat.
"Cease this folly, little one," Ausonius now said, more seriously. "My nephew's idle, unseemly words offended you; I reproved him for them; he will beg your pardon,"--Bissula made a contemptuous movement,--"and everything will be forgotten."
"Shall I forget my people?"
"Forget? No; but gradually become alienated from them. You look amazed. Well, let this trivial incident hasten the important disclosure I have to make. Are you thinking of leaving me? Give it up, sweet girl!" He controlled himself and went on more calmly: "My little daughter, you will never leave me again."
Bissula opened her eyes in the utmost astonishment, gazing at the Roman with the expression of a captured deer. The iron tramp of a marching cohort was heard close at hand, but the tents still concealed it from their gaze.
"What do you mean?" she stammered.
"I will tell you," said Ausonius in a firmer, sterner tone than he had ever used. The opposition he now suspected irritated him, and he was determined to execute his will. "I will tell you that I have resolved to fulfil my former plan. I shall take you as my guest for an indefinite time. As my little daughter," he added cautiously, "with me to Burdigala."
"Never!" cried Bissula, raising both arms in the wildest terror.
"Yes, most certainly."
"But I will not go. I--away from the lake--from--from my people? No, no, no!"
"Yes, yes, yes! This is not tyrannical nor cruel, as you think now."
"Who will compel me to go away?"
"I. We compel children whom we are educating to do what we desire, for their own good. You do not understand your real welfare: I will force you to do so."
"But I am no child; I am--" She advanced toward him defiantly.
"You are a captive. Do not forget that. You must obey your master, and he--"
"Is here," said a deep voice.
Saturninus stepped between them. With a firm hand he held Bissula, who had turned, reeled as though giddy, and tried again to scale the wall. "Do not forget that, Ausonius."
Angered by the interruption, perplexed, and half ashamed, the other drew back. "What are you doing?"
"I am protecting my captive."
"Against whom?"
"Against every threat: against wiles as well as compulsion--even though well meant."
Both gazed at him in silence, but the girl's gratitude was blended with a slight thrill of fear--fear of this protector too.
Ausonius was the first to find words. In tones which revealed wrath, jealousy, and suspicion, he exclaimed: "And who will protect her against you?"
"Nothing and no one, except my own will."
"Oh, set me free!" cried Bissula, raising her clasped hands despairingly to the Tribune.
"That you may tell the Barbarians all you have seen and heard in our camp? No, little maid. You will stay--perhaps forever. Have no thought of escape! Here, countryman!" He beckoned to a soldier. "Take her to the new tent; keep guard there until I leave tonight; then Rignomer the Batavian will relieve you. And listen: tell my scribe that during the day he must see that she--" The rest was whispered in the ear of the Illyrian, who led the wondering, bewildered girl away by the arm.
Ausonius and Saturninus parted without exchanging a single word: the latter saluted respectfully; but the angry Prefect did not, or would not, see the farewell.