It was to one of those detached circles, which we have described as separated from the general encampment, that Edicon led the way, after speaking with several of the chiefs, as they passed along. It had been apparently reserved for himself and those who followed him, for the enclosure was nearly vacant, except where, before the entrance of a tall but curiously-formed tent, which had probably been taken in war from some Eastern nation, blazed up a large and cheerful fire. Around were seated about a dozen Huns, not less wild and fierce in the expression of their faces than the rest of their nation; and yet there was something about their dress and general appearance which struck Theodore as more familiar to his eye. As he approached, one of them rose and addressed him in the Latin language, and welcomed him to his tent with great purity of speech and accent; and oh, how sweet and musical did those sounds appear, after the strange, harsh tongues which had lately rung in his ear, amid scenes of ruin, bloodshed, and strife!
Sweet, sweet indeed it was, but overpowering. He felt the tears ready to gush from his eyes; a word would have made them overflow; and, without speaking, he entered the tent to which the man had pointed. It contained nothing in the outer chamber of the two, into which it was divided by a curtain, but a lighted lamp upon a small table; and in the inner a bed, piled up of skins, with a single wooden settle. It had an air, however, of civilization and comfort; and how often is it in this life that the air has more influence upon our happiness than even the reality? We are the slaves of association, and, as such, truly but children of a larger growth, to whom the paint and tinsel of appearances render the toy valuable, whatever be its intrinsic worth.
Theodore cared little for the comfort, and thought Roman civilization had fallen into effeminacy; and yet the sight of that tent, like the sound of Roman words, sent a thrill through his heart, and made him happier. Edicon saw his emotion, and seemed to understand its cause, at least in part.
"You are surprised," he said, "to hear the Latin tongue; but you will be more so to know that there are several thousands in our host who can use it fluently."
"I have heard," replied Theodore, "when I was in Rome, that Ætius, the great general in Gaul, has several bodies of Huns among his mercenaries."[8]
"Ay, and Valentinian also," rejoined Edicon. "Not two years since full ten thousand of our nation were engaged in defence of the Western empire. We are too near neighbours to the East to have such friendly commerce with her. Besides, Theodosius is unworthy the defence of brave men--a mere weak coward, a flimsy knave, whose only means of proving his manhood is by murdering with hired steel the only honest and noble men left to save his empire."
Edicon struck the chord aright, and Theodore's heart replied, though his lips were silent. "These men," continued the Hunnish chief, pointing to the barbarians, who were again seated round the fire, and took but little notice either of Theodore or their newly-arrived companions, who had followed him with Edicon--"these men have been chosen by the king himself, not because they speak thy language better than others in the camp, but because they are known as faithful and just. They will accompany thee back into our land; and, though they go with regret, thou wilt find them true and trustworthy. Ten more will be added, whom thou mayst choose either from among the Huns who have lived with the Romans, or from among thy kinsmen the Alani."
"I will choose the Alani," answered Theodore, quickly; and he observed, as he spoke, the brow of his companion contract as if he were offended--"I will choose the Alani--not, noble Edicon," he added, "that I doubt or distrust the Huns, for to me they have been merciful, kind, and generous, whatever violence and cruelty they may have shown in dealing with my native land. But remember that those I love the best have gone to seek a refuge with the Alan tribes; and perchance, by having some of them near me, I may learn, as I go, tidings which will cheer and console me to hear."
"Not only as you go," answered Edicon, with a smile, "but afterward also; for those who are now chosen to accompany you are not only directed to be your guard by the way, but are also given you--not as servants to a lord, but as followers to a leader, and will obey you in all things, as far as our customs permit, so long as you remain with us."
"It is strange," answered Theodore, thoughtfully; "your king, so harsh and fierce towards others, is so gentle and merciful to me--considers my wants, provides for my security, and cares for my comfort as if he were a father."
"Receive it all with gratitude," replied Edicon, "and he may prove a father to you. Nor must you think Attila harsh and fierce towards any, except in the hour of battle, when the spirit of war is upon him, and with the powers of a god he claims the attribute of vengeance. No! though grave and stern, he is just and humane towards his people. Determined in his purposes, inflexible in his judgments, his purposes towards those who obey him are mild, his judgments even against himself are equitable. It is only the traitor among his own people, the aggressor among foreign nations, that he treats with rigour."
"Think me not ungrateful," said Theodore; "I meant not to accuse thy monarch; and while I felt thankful for the tenderness he hath shown to me and mine--thankful for life and liberty preserved, and for the safety of those who are dearer to me than life itself--I have been forced to marvel that he has dealt so different a measure to me and to others. There is something strange in it."
"There may be so," replied Edicon; "but think you there are no such things as sudden intimations given us from Heaven of those with whom our fate is to be linked for good or evil? Think you that those prepossessions for or against, which we feel so suddenly, so unaccountably, in rare and extraordinary cases, are mere fancies, passing whims, which have no reference to after events?"
Theodore made no reply, for he remembered well his own peculiar feelings when he had first seen that powerful monarch with whom his own destiny had since been so completely mingled. He remembered it well, but he answered not, for the Hun seemed to have seen his feelings, or at least divined them; and at length Edicon went on:--"Such may have been the prepossession of Attila towards you; and we know, or at least believe, that the feelings I have mentioned are given us by the gods, to let us know our friends and enemies. Does not the horse tremble when the unseen lion is near? Do not the bleatings of the sheep warn the shepherd to watch even while the wolf is yet afar off?"
He paused a moment for reply, and then added--"But I will leave you to repose; and yet, ere you seek sleep, take some food, for your eyes are haggard and hollow, your cheek burning as if this tent were a furnace, and you have neither drunk mead nor broken bread during the whole day. Bid a slave bring food," he continued, speaking to those without; and then, taking from one of his own followers the sword which Theodore had left in his hands, he laid it down on the small table by the lamp, saying, "You are now turning to another land. Keep your weapon, for, whether you need it or not, it is always well to be prepared. Add to it a javelin and a bow; for, as you go through our country, you may strike a stag or a wild bull, and gain honours in the chase, which we hold next to war. I will now leave you, and see you to-morrow ere you depart."
Thus saying, his conductor left him, and a frightful negro slave, precious in the eyes of the Huns from the hideousness of his face and figure, brought him cooked meat and thin cakes of flour, with a strong drink composed of honey. Theodore tried to eat, but only few were the mouthfuls he could swallow, though the meat was not unsavoury. He tried, too, to drink; but there was a burning heat in his throat and mouth, and the sweet liquor was revolting to his taste.
"I will bring wine," said the negro slave, in tolerable Greek; "I am a present from Attila the King to his Roman son, and he is henceforth my lord. Wilt thou have wine? for it shall go hard but, with mine own wit and Attila's name to bear me out, I will find you as pure wine in the Hunnish camp as ever you tasted in the city of Constantine."
"I would rather have pure water," answered Theodore; "I have a painful thirst upon me; and heart and tongue feel burning as if with fire."
The slave sprang away, and returned in a few moments with both water and wine; and mingling them together, Theodore drank with delight which he had not known for long.
"I thank thee, friend," he said, giving his hand to the slave in gratitude for the blessed draught: "it is exquisite, and I thank thee."
The slave took his hand and kissed it, gazing intently on his face; and then, seeing by the calm and grateful sincerity of the young Roman's look that no scorn existed in his bosom towards that deformed and frightful shape which crouched at his feet, he sprang up, saying, "I have deceived you, but I will not betray you. I am not sent by Attila, but by Bleda, his brother. Beware of him! Roman, beware of him!"
"I have no cause to fear him," answered Theodore: "I have done naught to injure him."
The slave shook his head mournfully. "Are we only injured by those whom we have injured?" he demanded. "Alas! were it so, I should not be what I am. But I must speed hence, and not talk with thee too long, lest he hear that I have done so, and think I have betrayed him."
"But tell me, what is thy name?" demanded Theodore. "I have naught to give thee as a reward, but some day, perchance, I may have, and I will not fail."
"My name is Zercon," answered the slave; "and I am the crooked and mutilated jester of Bleda, the brother of Attila. Thou hast looked upon me with eyes of feeling and compassion, and I am rewarded enough; but I will serve thee further still."
Thus saying, he left the tent, and drew the external curtain closely after him. Theodore paused to think over what he had heard; but, as he reflected, he could find in all the wide range of probability no cause why Bleda should seek to injure him--"There must be some mistake," he thought; and, overpowered with weariness and exhaustion, he laid his sword close beside the bed of skins, and casting himself down, endeavoured to forget his cares in slumber. Restless, unhappy, fevered, long and painfully he tossed upon that lowly couch, courting in vain the blessed influence which opens for us, for a while, those gates of care, that shut us in the dreary prison of ourself. The faintly-burning lamp stood beside him; and by its pale light, as his eye roved round, the dark hangings of the tent became peopled with the spectres of imagination. His father passed before him, as he last had seen him at Byzantium; but his garments were spotted and dabbled with blood, and his countenance was pale with the ashy hue of death. Then came Flavia, with a crown upon her head, and a shroud about her person. Then he beheld Eudochia struggling in the arms of a fierce and eager form, and then Ildica glided across the scene, clothed in bridal robes, and with her left hand clasped in that of a wild, shadowy shape, which led her slowly forward, while in her right she carried a naked dagger, dropping as she went large gouts of crimson blood.
He knew, he felt, that it was all delusion, but yet he could not banish the swarming fancies that disturbed his brain, and even deceived the organ of sight itself. He closed his eyes, and resolutely turned his face to the wall of the tent, near which he lay, and employed himself in listening to the various sounds which rose up from the myriads spread over that wide plain. Although there were some noises which might be distinguished from the rest, an occasional burst of laughter, the loud and measured tones of some singer or reciter, or the wild notes of various rude instruments of music, yet the general buzz of all the many voices far and near came upon his ear with a drowsy and lulling hum, which gradually brought on an inclination to sleep. As time passed, too, the louder and more distinct sounds died away, and the whole subsided into a low and whispering rustle, which was like the noise of the sea upon a pebbly shore, only that it wanted the regular intermission of the successive waves. Forgetfulness fell upon him; but in a moment he awoke again with a quick start, gazed round to see where he was, felt the load of care pressed back upon memory, and hastened again to close his eyes, and cast it off once more.
He slept again, and this time more profoundly than the last, though his breathing was short and thick, and his limbs tossed to and fro. The lamp burnt more and more dimly. The sounds in the camp fell into silence, only broken now and then by the wild neighing of a war-horse.
At length, a little before midnight, the curtain, which separated the tent into two chambers, and which he had let drop when he lay down to rest, trembled as with a slight wind--was slowly moved--was drawn back; and a tall, powerful form took a step within, and let it quietly fall again. Two more paces brought him to the side of the couch where the young Roman lay, and, with arms folded on his chest, the giant-like intruder gazed upon the sleeping youth, and then looked cautiously round the tent. When he had done so twice, he blew out the lamp, and drawing over his tall form the mantle which Theodore had cast off, he crouched himself down at the foot of his bed. All was still and silent but the quick, heavy breathing of the Roman youth, and the rustling of his clothes, as he turned from time to time upon his uneasy couch. In less than half an hour, however, the curtain again moved, and a listening head was advanced within it.
"The lamp has gone out," said a whispering voice, speaking to some one in the outer chamber, in the lowest tone that the human tongue can assume; "lift up the curtain of the door, lest I miss my blow."
The curtain was lifted up, the inner one pushed back, and in streamed the pale, calm moonlight, showing Bleda, the brother of Attila, partly advanced within the inner chamber. He took another step forward, and listened, grasping tight the shining blade which he carried in his hand. Another step brought him within arm's length of the Roman's couch, and his hand was raised to strike, when, bounding like a lion on his prey, up started from his master's feet Cremera, the Arab freedman, and seized the murderer in his gigantic grasp.
An instant struggle took place; but the Hun was no match for his antagonist, who cast him down upon the ground, shaken, and nearly stunned. Another barbarian, however, rushed in, sword in hand, from the outer tent; but Theodore was now upon his feet, and, springing across the prostrate body of Bleda, interposed between the armed Hun and his gallant freedman. Another barbarian appeared at the door of the tent, and how the struggle might have gone, who shall say? but then there came a cry of Attila the King! Attila the King! and, with a torch before him, the dark monarch of the Huns advanced slowly into the tent. He gazed round upon the faces of all present with that stern, calm, unmoved look which never changed but in the fury of the battle.
Bleda, who had risen, answered his brother's glance with a look of fierce and fiery impatience, and planted his foot upon his sword, which had fallen from his hand in the struggle, as if he feared that some one should snatch it up. The companion who had followed him, with his naked blade still in his hand, stood trembling before the face of Attila with a pale and changing countenance.
To Bleda the great monarch said nothing; but slowly drawing his heavy sword from the sheath, he raised it over his head, and at a single blow cleft through the scull of his brother's follower, till the trenchant blade stopped at his teeth and jaws.
Bleda sprang forward with wrath flaming from his eyes. "How darest thou," he cried, "slay my servant?"
"How darest thou," said Attila, in a voice of thunder, "lift thy hand against my friend? Thinkest thou that Attila can be deceived? Thinkest thou that Attila will not punish? Bleda, Bleda! Once, twice, thrice have I warned thee! The measure is full! See that it run not over. I am neither blind to thine ambition nor thy purposes. Beware while it is yet time, and be yet my brother."
"Why, what have I to fear from thee?" demanded Bleda, haughtily; "am I not a king as thou art? Did not the same father beget us, the same mother bear us? Was not the dominion left to us equally divided? What art thou that thou shouldst judge me? Am I not a king as thou art?"
"Our portion was once equal," answered Attila; "but though I have not robbed thee of one tribe or of one charger, what are my dominions now and thine? I have added nation unto nation, and kingdom unto kingdom, while thou hast held thine own only beneath the protection of thy brother's shield. Bleda, I have trod upon the necks if fifteen kings, each greater than thou art. Force me not to tread upon thine. Once more, beware! I tell thee, the cup is full! Thou knowest Attila; now get thee gone, and leave me."
Bleda paused a moment, as if he would fain have given voice to the rage that swelled within his heart. But there was a strange and overwhelming power in his brother's presence, which even he, who had struggled with him from infancy up to manhood, could not resist. He remained silent then, not finding words to answer; and taking up his sword, he shook it with a bent brow at Cremera, and quitted the tent.
"Take away, yon carrion, and give it to the vultures," said Attila, pointing to the body of him he had slain.--"Brave man," he continued, turning to Cremera, "well hast thou done what I gave thee in charge--thou hast saved thy master's life; now leave us, but wait with the men without, to whom I gave the task of guarding him from evil. Bid them be more cautious for the future and tell them, that the presence of the king's brother--nay, of his son himself can never more be an excuse to Attila for failing in obedience unto him. For the present, they are pardoned; get ye gone."
Cremera retired; and Attila motioning his own attendants to withdraw, made them drop the curtain of the tent, and then sat down upon the couch of skins. Theodore stood for a moment by his side, but the King made him be seated, calling him by the gentle name of my son.
"Thou art surprised," he said, "to see thy faithful freedman here amongst us; but when I found thee first, sleeping in the watch-tower beyond the Danube, he sat between thee and me with his spear in his hand, glaring upon me as I have seen in Eastern lands the lioness glare upon the hunters, who would take her young; and I said to mine own heart, 'If this youth should ever want a faithful guard, here is one who could spill his own heart's blood rather than a drop of his lord's should flow.' When I followed thee from Margus, too, I found him almost alone, struggling with some of my warriors who had gone on before, in defence of the women, for whom, as well as for thyself, I had promised thine uncle my protection. He would not yield till a heavy blow on the head had stunned him, but I gave him in charge to those who are skilled in the secret virtue of herbs and flowers, with commands to bring him after me, and to cure him. They promised me he should be soon well; and when I heard of thy danger, and that he had recovered, I sent him hither to guard thee, till I could come myself, not choosing to oppose any of my own nation to the hand of my brother; and I knew that that brother would do the deed he meditated with his own arm."
"Then I have once more to thank thee, mighty Attila, for life," said Theodore; "to thank thee, the enemy of my native land, the destroyer of my countrymen."
"Not so," replied the monarch: "I have once saved thy life, I grant, when thou wert in the power of Ardaric; but for the deed of to-night thou owest me nothing. I promised thee protection, and had I not given it when I could, I should have been myself thy murderer. But to-morrow thou seekest to depart and leave me. Is it not so?"
"It is," answered Theodore; "not that I am ungrateful for thy favours, oh king! nor insensible to the distinction which thou makest between me and others of my race; but the scenes I have beheld, the grief and bitterness of heart that I have endured, since the morning sun of yesterday, would soon terminate my existence, were they often to be renewed. Did your nation wage warfare like a civilised people, I might endure though I might grieve; but now the sight of the utter extermination and devastation which thy tribes inflict wherever they pass is death, is worse than death to me likewise."
Attila fixed his eyes upon the ground, and remained for a moment silent:--"I will reason with thee, my son," he said at length; "for, though I disdain the art of the idle and subtle fools, who wrangle, as I hear, for an empty word in the schools of thy capital, yet Attila is not without reasons for anything he does, and when needful, can give those reasons, if it so please him. Thou talkest of the hostilities of civilised nations, and speakest with anger and fear of our more just and reasonable dealings in our warfare. But we make war upon our enemies, not upon our friends. We either go to subdue and bring under our dominion other nations, or to avenge ourselves upon a foreign foe. If the first be our object, and resistance is offered to us, how foolish to leave our enemies the means of resisting us with success? how weak to spare men who have done all they could to slay us, or women and children, by which the race of our adversaries may be kept up and increased? No; it behoves us to smite with the arrow and the sword, so long as there is any power of resistance in the land, and never sheathe the blade; or unstring the bow, till we are undisputed masters of the whole race and region. Then again, if we go for vengeance, what vengeance do we gain by suffering our own warriors to be slain without slaying our enemies? The more that die, the more is vengeance satisfied, and if we purchase it with our own blood, we must drink the blood of our enemies. What you call civilised warfare is a mere folly, which protracts the attainment of the end it seeks, and often loses it altogether--which, instead of blazing like a bright fire, and consuming rapidly a small quantity of fuel, lingers long, and burns a thousand-fold as much. No, no, my son, the most merciful warfare is that which is the shortest; and that in which no compassion is shown or asked, is always sure to be the soonest over. Nevertheless," continued Attila, "I seek not to make thee witness the ruin of thy native land, though, methinks, the destruction of thy father's murderer might well repay the sight; but thou shalt go hence. The men I have chosen to accompany thee are under thy command, and thou shalt have cattle, and woods, and pasturage assigned thee from my own herds and lands; ay, even gold shalt thou have, and, what is better, security and peace; for whosoever lifts his hand against thee shall have Attila for his foe; and now fare thee well, till we meet again on my return."
Theodore was left alone once more, and weariness was more than ever upon him; but yet the busy, untiring course of thought went on for long after he had again lain down to rest. Thought's insidious enemy, sleep, at length crept upon him; but, ere calm forgetfulness had complete dominion, Cremera once more stole into the tent, and again lay down at his feet. The lamp, however, had been lighted by the followers of the monarch; and Theodore, recognising the form of his faithful attendant, merely spoke a few words of thanks and greeting, and let his heavy eyelids fall.
Broad daylight was shining through the chinks of the tent when he awoke; and Cremera was sitting in the outer chamber, polishing with a knife a strong ashen staff, to which he had fitted the iron head of a spear. Theodore saw that the day must be far advanced, and rising, he offered prayers and thanks to God; and then, while speaking many kindly words to the freedman, he advanced and pushed back the loose hangings that closed the interior of the tent from the view of the outer world.
How changed was the scene which met his eye from that which he had passed through on the preceding night! The Huns were gone; scarcely a vestige of them remained; not a wagon, not a group was to be seen over all that wide plain, except where, before the door of the tent, ten or twelve of the Huns, and an equal number of the Alani, taller, stronger, and fairer to look upon than their dark companions, employed the vacant hours in packing a number of small and strangely-assorted articles into two of the low wagons which had formed part of the night's circle round the tent. The sun was not very far from its meridian, and Theodore saw that he must have slept long and profoundly, but yet he was not refreshed. There was a weariness, a heaviness upon his limbs that he had never felt before--a burning heat upon his skin, that the cooler climate in which he now was placed could not have produced.
Nevertheless, he gladly prepared to depart, and bade the attendants who had been assigned to him make all things ready, while he went to bathe his feverish body in a small stream that his eye caught glistening on at a short distance upon its way to join the rushing waters of the Danube. The cool wave, however, proved no refreshment, and only caused a chilly shudder to pass over his limbs, succeeded quickly by the same heat as before. On his return he found food prepared, but he could not eat; and though his lip loathed the wine they offered, he drank a deep draught from the horn of a urus, for the sake of gaining that temporary strength of which he felt himself to stand in need.
His own horse, fresh as the early morning from a night of repose, stood near, but the horses of the barbarians were still straying over the plain. A shrill, long whistle, however, brought them in a moment to their masters' sides, and small grooming did the rude riders of the Dacian wilds bestow upon their swift but rugged beasts. The tent was by this time struck and placed upon the wagons; and Theodore, with one of the Huns beside him to guide him as he went, led the way onward towards that strange land which seemed thenceforward destined to be his home for many a long year. Of his guide he asked various questions, and was answered fluently in his own language; but at length Cremera, who followed, pointed towards the towers of a far distant city, saying, "Is not that Margus?"
"It is," answered the Hun. "We can go thither if thou wilt," he continued, addressing Theodore. "We can repose there to-morrow night. It is now a city belonging to Attila the King."
"No, no," replied Theodore, with many a painful feeling at the very thought finding expression on his countenance--"no, no, not in the city for a thousand worlds; rather let us lodge in the open field."
"Thou art wise, young chief," replied the Hun. "Cities are hateful places: Attila loves them not any more than thou dost; and, though Margus is his, he will not keep it long, but will either sell it back to the Romans or destroy it."
Theodore replied not; and they rode on till at length, towards eventide, they came near the banks of the Danube, and, after half an hour's riding within sight of the river, halted for the night on a spot near the old Roman way from M[oe]sia into Dacia. Theodore was fatigued, but yet he could not rest; and while they were engaged in setting up his tent, he wandered forward to drink of the great river.
It was a sweet, bright, tranquil afternoon. The sun was just dipping beneath the wood-covered hills upon the opposite bank of the river, but the air was still full of his light; and the forests and mountains, the soft green slopes, the blue sky, and the light passing cloud, were mirrored in the swift waters of the mighty stream, as it flowed on towards the ocean. The air, too, was calm; and silence hung above the world, except when the laughing note of the woodpecker, or the melody of the thrush, broke the silence for a moment, to render it more calm and sweet. Theodore gazed up the stream, and beheld afar gigantic masses of masonry, rifted and broken, projecting from either bank, while here and there, from the broad sealike bosom of the Danube, rose up massy piers and woodwork, the fragments of some vast fabric swept away.
It was evidently the famous bridge of Trajan that stood before him, just as the destroying hand of his envious successor had left it; and as Theodore gazed upon the remnants of that stupendous work, as they stood in the clear light and shade of evening, he could not but meditate upon the change of dynasties, the vanity of human hopes, the fruitlessness of earthly endeavours, and all the many and melancholy themes on which poet and philosopher have sung and moralized, hoping, even while they did so, for that earthly immortality which they knew and proved to be a bubble. There before his eyes stood one of the greatest works of one of the greatest men that the human race, in all its vast succession of beings, in all its complexity of characters, in all its variety of qualities, has ever produced, from the creation till to-day; and yet a mean follower, unable to compete with him in intellect, in feeling, in effort, or in success, had possessed the power to sweep away from off the earth that majestic monument of a grand and creative mind, to cast down what the good and wise had raised up, to destroy what the noble and energetic had created.
"Oh, wonderful frailty of man's most lasting works!" thought the young Roman; "that nothing can give them certain existence, no, not for a century. That which the earthquake spares, the hand of war and violence pulls down; that which hostile armies have respected, the mean envy of inferior genius will destroy. Alas! when we look around, and think of the work of but a few short lustres upon man's noblest efforts and his brightest productions, well, well may we ask, What is lasting upon earth?"
He paused--"Yes, yes!" he thought again; "virtue is lasting! virtue is immortal even here! Rarely as it is seen, often as it is counterfeited, shunning publicity, hating pomp, virtue, indestructible like gold, even in the fire of time and amid the trial of circumstances, comes out pure and passes on uninjured, accumulating slowly, but brightly, in the treasuries of the past, and forming an inexhaustible store of example and encouragement for all who choose to take it. Yes, yes, virtueislasting! One may produce, and another may destroy; but Trajan shall be remembered when Hadrian is forgotten or contemned."
Theodore, as the confidence in some great principle of stability returned to his heart, set his foot more firmly upon the earth, which, to his imagination, had seemed crumbling beneath him like a pile of dust and ashes, while he had only remembered how brief, how transitory is the existence of the noblest fabrics that it bears.
He would fain have gone on to examine more nearly the mighty fragments of what had once been the celebrated bridge of Trajan; but the ruins were farther than they seemed: he was weary and languid; and ever and anon urged by the burning thirst upon him, he paused to drink again of the waters of the Danube. At length he gave up his purpose and returned to the tent, where the Huns were broiling, on a wood fire, a large fish which they had caught in the neighbouring river. At the very sight of food a sickening disgust came over the young Roman; but his faithful Cremera pressed him so anxiously to eat, that he forced himself to swallow a few mouthfuls. But it was in vain: he could not go on; and soon retiring to his tent, he endeavoured to find repose.
No sounds disturbed his rest, for nothing was to be heard but the rushing of the Danube and the sighing of the wind through the tall trees. No human being had been seen through all that morning's journey; no voice of salutation had welcomed them as they passed, showing too well how desolate the land had been made; and after the youth's attendants had laid themselves down to sleep, not a tone but one solitary scream from some flitting bird of night broke the silence of the world around: and yet Theodore courted slumber in vain. He tossed his weary limbs upon the couch of skins which had again become his bed, and counted the heavy minutes from night till morning. Frequently, through all the violent heat that burned in his whole frame, a cold chilly shudder would pass over him, and he felt that the hand of sickness was upon him.
Nevertheless, he started up with the dawn, bent with feverish eagerness upon pursuing his journey as quickly as possible, while yet the last efforts of his remaining strength could be exerted to oppose the overpowering weight that pressed him down. Looking out from the tent, he saw the Huns and the Alani already busy in preparing for departure; and, in a few minutes, one who seemed to have been despatched to seek for a means of transport came back to say that the raft had already come down to the shore. Cremera gazed anxiously on the changed and ashy countenance of his lord; but he spoke not, and led the war-horse, who knew his hand better than that of any of the Huns, down to the bank of the river. A raft, such as had borne Theodore across once before, was waiting with some of the rude boatmen of the Danube, and in two voyages the whole party which accompanied the young Roman was borne across and landed on the other side of the river.
Dacia was now before his steps; and although he could not but feel a chilly coldness at the thought that he had passed, perhaps for ever, the boundary of his native land; had left behind him, for an unlimited space of years, all those scenes and objects linked to the brightest memories of his heart; had entered upon a course where all was new and strange, where much was dark and doubtful, and much distinctly painful; and that he had nothing in prospect, at the very best, but a long, dull lapse of years, among nations inferior to his own in every point of intellect and every art of social life; yet there was a feeling of joy broke across the gloom of such anticipations when he remembered the sights of horror which he had just beheld on the Roman frontier, and felt that he would be called to mingle in such scenes no more. The very feeling gave him new energy; the morning air seemed to revive him; and he spurred on with the rest through the wide forest that lay before their steps, and across which a grass-grown track afforded them a way into the interior of the country.
In less than three hours, at the rapid rate at which they travelled, they had crossed the belt of wood which for a considerable way bordered the Danube. Beyond that belt stretched out a plain, which would have seemed interminable had not the blue lines of some distant mountains, rising up against the far horizon, marked its boundary. Except where, here and there, was seen a line of forest ground, looking like a group of bushes in the vast extent over which the eye could stretch, the whole plain seemed covered with long green grass, waving like a mighty lake as a light wind bent it to and fro in the morning sunshine.
There was something grand and expansive in the view, notwithstanding its vast monotony; and as Theodore paused for a moment, and let his horse breathe upon the edge of the slight slope on which the forest ended, he gazed with some feelings of surprise and admiration upon the new world which was henceforth to be his habitation. That feeling again refreshed him; but much need had he indeed of refreshment, and of anything which could give even a momentary support to that strength which was failing fast under the pressure of fatigue and illness.
"Let your horse pause for a moment and eat," said the Hun who rode by his side. "We are a long way from a resting-place: under those woods is our first village."
Theodore did as the other advised, but his heart grew faint at such a notification of the length of way; for though he would not pause nor yield so long as any powers of life were left, yet he felt that the powers of life were waning, and that, if he reached not soon some place where he could obtain refreshment and repose, he should never reach it at all, but sink of unwonted weariness by the way.
In a few minutes they again began their journey through the plain, riding up to their horses' chests in the long rich grass, which, though it proved no obstacle to the small, quick horses of the Huns, impeded and irritated at every step the fiery charger which had carried the young Roman. In the meanwhile the summer sun got high, and poured its burning rays upon Theodore's unsheltered head; a white, filmy, and oppressive mist rose up from the moist plain, not thick enough to impede the sight, but tinging every object with a peculiar hue. For a long time nothing diversified the scene, nothing interrupted the monotony of their progress; out at length an immense bird sprang up almost from under their horses' feet, and spreading its wings, without rising from the ground, ran on with extraordinary speed before them.
"An ostrich! an ostrich!" cried Cremera, forgetting the distance between the spot where he then stood and his own porphyry mountains--"an ostrich! a young ostrich!"
But the Hun who was by his side paused for a moment without speaking, poised the javelin he carried in his hand, and launched it with a strong arm in the air. Falling with unerring aim, it struck the great bustard between the wings; and, riding on, the Hun took it up and slung it over his shoulders, saying, "This will secure our evening meal."
Still they rode on, and more and more terrible grew the lassitude of the Roman youth; the heat was overpowering; the way seemed interminable, and that distant line of wood towards which their steps were bent, though appearing certainly to grow larger, yet was approached so slowly that Theodore, as he gazed upon it, felt his heart grow faint with the despair of ever arriving at the calm shelter which he vainly hoped there to find. With his lip parched, with his eye glazed, with his cheek pale yet burning, and with his hands scarcely able to hold the reins, still he rode on, looking forward with an anxious, straining gaze upon those woods, thinking they never would be reached. Wider and wider they stretched out before him. The plain on which he had seen them stand alone, like a group of bushes, when he had gazed on them from the distant heights, now seemed bounded by them entirely on that side. As he came nearer he could distinguish the vast rolling masses of forest, the dark, deep brakes where glades or savannas intervened; and at length, while with his dim and dizzy sight he scanned eagerly the scene before him, he thought he could perceive some low, wooden cottages, crouching, as if for shelter, beneath the wide-extended arms of the tall trees upon the edge. That sight again gave him a momentary impulse; he urged his horse on; he saw the cottages more distinctly; but, as with that last effort he attempted to reach them, strength, and hope, and thought all gave way at once, and, with just the consciousness of utter exhaustion, he fell fainting from his horse.
A lapse of time succeeded, over which Theodore's memory had no power. He had talked, he had suffered, he had raved, he had struggled during the interval; he had named names which those around him did not know; he had spoken a thousand things which they could not comprehend, while for fourteen days he had lain tossed between life and death, and tended by the hands of strangers. But of all that he had no recollection when at length reasoning consciousness had returned.
It was the evening of a sweet summer's day, when, opening his eyes, he looked around and wondered where he was. There was a small chamber, lined with smooth and fragrant pine wood, from the cracks and crevices of which the fresh resin was yet oozing. On the walls hung, in fantastic garlands, many a barbarian instrument of war, spears and swords, the quiver of arrows and the unstrung bow, the buckler, the club, and the far-slaying sling. There, too, beneath, on stands and tables of wood, might be seen a number of strange idols, wild, unseemly shapes, such as a child might carve for sport out of a block of wood. Settles and tables were there also, of the same plain material, but on some of them appeared objects of a more valuable kind and a richer workmanship. There lay, even in abundance, gems and gold, bearing evident marks of cultivated taste and skilful art; but there were two things more sweet than any other could have been to Theodore's senses at that moment, which called all attention from every other object.
The first was the calm, sweet breath of the summer evening, borne light and fragrant through the open window; the other was the sweet, melodious voice of a woman singing.
He turned his eyes to where the singer sat beside the bed on which he was stretched, and saw a girl of some seventeen years of age, with bright brown hair, worn not as Roman women wore it, but parted on the fair forehead, and thrust in clustering ringlets behind her ears. The face was very sweet and beautiful, and everything would have been soft--perhaps too soft for great interest--had it not been for the deep, devoted blue eyes. They were somewhat darker in hue than the sky by day; but yet, as they gazed forth from the long dark lashes, they looked like that same azure heaven at the moment when its colour is most deep, yet most pure, just ere the curtain of the night falls over its expanse. She saw the youth turn his eyes upon her; but, thinking only that sleep had fled again from his still fevered brain, she recommenced the song she had been singing, while her small white hands continued to ply the light labour of the distaff. Theodore, however, could now hear and understand; and he listened with delight that cannot be told, while, in the Alan tongue, the language of his own dear mother, she sang, with a sweet, soft, rounded voice--
THE SONG OF SLEEP."Come, gentle sleep, to the couch of the stranger,From thought's weary burden, oh give him relief!Take mem'ries of anguish and prospects of danger,The future's dull care and the past's heavy grief."Sweet friend of our childhood, thou strewest with flowersThe pillow where infancy rests her calm head,When weary with sporting through long happy hours,With thee for her angel, she seeks the soft bed."Coy visitant, come! We prize thee more highly,In years more mature when we've tried the world's truth;Why com'st thou so rarely? why fly'st thou so shyly?Oh what thus estranges the friend of our youth?"We've been false to thy friendship, despised thy caresses;For pleasures we've left thee, and even for cares;The faithful, the tranquil, the humble, sleep blesses,But flies from the couch that one wild passion shares."Yet, balm-giver, yet, for the sick and the weary,Thy merciful gifts we implore as a boon;Oh give us thine aid, on our way long and dreary--Aid, tardily valued, and lost all too soon!"
"Come, gentle sleep, to the couch of the stranger,
From thought's weary burden, oh give him relief!
Take mem'ries of anguish and prospects of danger,
The future's dull care and the past's heavy grief.
"Sweet friend of our childhood, thou strewest with flowers
The pillow where infancy rests her calm head,
When weary with sporting through long happy hours,
With thee for her angel, she seeks the soft bed.
"Coy visitant, come! We prize thee more highly,
In years more mature when we've tried the world's truth;
Why com'st thou so rarely? why fly'st thou so shyly?
Oh what thus estranges the friend of our youth?
"We've been false to thy friendship, despised thy caresses;
For pleasures we've left thee, and even for cares;
The faithful, the tranquil, the humble, sleep blesses,
But flies from the couch that one wild passion shares.
"Yet, balm-giver, yet, for the sick and the weary,
Thy merciful gifts we implore as a boon;
Oh give us thine aid, on our way long and dreary--
Aid, tardily valued, and lost all too soon!"
It is a strange and awful sensation, when, after having enjoyed to the full the powers and energies of manhood, we find ourselves suddenly reduced by the unnerving hand of sickness to the feebleness of infancy: when giant strength lies prostrate and busy activity is chained to the weary bed. It is strange and it is awful, for it shows us most sensibly how frail a thing is that vigour which, in our boisterous days of health, we madly think an adamantine armour against all adversity. It is strange and awful, for it leads us to the brink of that fatal precipice over which all must fall, and displays, as if from the very verge, the inside of our future grave.
From a stupor, in which all memory and every power of thought had been at an end, Theodore woke as feeble and incapable as when, in the nurse's arms, he moved his mother's heart by his first infant cry. The same feelings of tenderness; the same mingled emotions, where pity, and hope, and the pleasure of protecting, all unite; the same sensations of affectionate interest for the thing we rear, and guard, and watch for, as those which fill the breast of a mother towards her child, affected, though in a less degree, those who attended the couch of the young Roman during his illness and convalescence. It was but slowly he recovered: for the fever which had seized upon him had been fierce and powerful; and it had been only unfaded youth's tenacity of life and the natural vigour of his frame which had finally conquered that terrible assailant.
The persons who attended him were entirely women, except when his faithful Cremera took his daily turn to watch by his bedside; and though an elder and more matronly dame came in and out, and frequently remained in his chamber for an hour or more, still his principal attendant was the lovely girl whom he at first had seen, or a maiden who seemed to be her sister, still younger than herself.
Often would he keep his eyes closed, to listen, uninterrupted, to the sweet singing of the barbarian girl; often when he woke would he find that graceful form bending over him, and those deep, intense blue eyes gazing upon his countenance, as if to mark the outposts of victorious health, spreading life's rosy banner where the pale flag of sickness had been advanced so lately. As he recovered strength also, and his tongue became more capable of its office, he would converse with her from time to time in the language which she had used in singing and though she spoke it not as her native dialect, yet they could thus converse fluently.
With the matron it was different: she was kind, but not conversable; yet, when she did speak, it was always in the pure Alan tongue; and Theodore could almost have fancied that he heard once more the voice of his mother. Under kind care and skilful management he at length reached that point where his recovery became certain; and from that moment his convalescence proceeded rapidly. He was soon able to quit his chamber; and going forth, though with wavering and unsteady steps, he walked along, enjoying the fresh air of the morning, beneath the rude portico of unshaped stems of trees which shaded one side of that long low dwelling, while his heart was raised with fresh gratitude to Heaven at every sweet sound and sight that he was permitted again to enjoy. There had been a time, not very long before, when life had seemed to him a weary burden, which he desired not to retain; the earth a dreary and a desert dwelling-place, in which he was but little anxious to remain. But such feelings had only existed while the body remained in strength and vigour, oppressed and impatient under a mind overcharged with sorrows, anxieties, and cares. Now, however, the corporeal frame had been weakened and cast down; the body as well as the mind had been humbled and chastised; the blessings of life were more valued, the past could be regarded with resignation, and the future looked forward to with hope.
As he walked forth one day under the shadow of that portico, his eye wandered over the whole plain, on which, at a little distance, appeared some horsemen, whom he afterward found to be those who had attended him thither. In the shade, however, were collected a number of women, comprising all those whom he had hitherto seen; and Neva, the blue-eyed daughter of the house, smiled gayly to see his wavering steps. The next moment she greeted him with, "Come, sit you with the women till you have strength enough to join the men;" and she made room for him on the bench on which she sat between herself and her mother.
All were employed in some domestic occupation; and the distaff, and the spindle, and the wheel went on, while Theodore, sitting beside them, began to ask the first questions which he had hitherto ventured, regarding the place and the family in which he then was. He found that the village which he saw stretching along under the forest contained not less than two or three hundred wooden cottages; and his eye at once showed him that the one in which he had found shelter and received so much true kindness was by far the most extensive and most ornamented of the whole. When he came to ask, however, whose was the house in which he dwelt, and whose the family that tended him so carefully, they answered him at once that it was that of Bleda, the brother of Attila.
His countenance changed, and he asked no more questions. Ere he had sat long there the horsemen returned from the field, bringing with them some game which they had procured; and eagerly, and with signs of much regard, they gathered round Theodore, and wished him joy on his recovered health. Towards evening two herdsmen drove home from a distance a large flock of diminutive cattle, and a shepherd brought some sheep into the fold. Two or three other lesser flocks were driven slowly across the plain to different houses in the village; but the men who drove them formed the only male population, with the exception of his own attendants, which Theodore had yet seen since he entered Dacia.
As the days passed on, and he mingled more with the people, he found that this first view was fully confirmed, and that almost all the men of the land, except such as were too old or too young to bear arms, had gone forth with Attila in his invasion of the Roman empire.
"Were Rome now," thought Theodore, "what Rome once was, while this barbarian monarch invades and ravages the East, the legions of the West would pour across Pannonia, and, sweeping the whole land, take as hostages the women and children here left unprotected. But alas! I fear me that neither the legions of the East will have power to withstand the myriads of Attila, nor the West have energy to hasten his return, by invading his territories, and taking hostages for his future tranquillity. 'Tis true they may not know that the land is left in such a state; but, alas! I must not point out its weakness. Even to save my country, I must not return the mercy shown me, and the kind hospitality received, by base ingratitude. Doubtless, when strength returns, I could escape; doubtless I could bear to Valentinian, or, better still, to Ætius, tidings of the condition in which this land is left, and thereby, perchance, deliver the empire itself. But it must not be! No, no! such a task must not be mine."
The situation, however, was a painful one; and the knowledge, too, that he was dwelling in the house of Bleda, of the man who had striven to take his life, and whose enmity--though he knew not why--was evidently fiercely raised against him, added to the gloom he felt, and made him anxious to proceed farther into the country.
Ruga, the wife of Bleda, however, was herself one of the Alani, from a tribe which had remained amid their original valleys on the Georgian side of Caucasus. She had by this time learned that the mother of the young stranger had been a daughter of the same nation, though sprung from a different tribe; and, little aware of the enmity of her husband towards him, she now pressed Theodore anxiously to stay with them till the armies of the Huns returned. Her daughter, too, urged the same request with all the native simplicity of a guileless heart; and Theodore himself, as innocent in thought and purpose, believed that he could there remain happily, without risk or danger to the peace of any one, were it not for the enmity of Neva's father. He made inquiries, however, and he found that no chance existed of any of the Huns returning for several months; and he determined to remain for a time, hoping that, if he could win the regard of the chieftain's family, the causeless animosity of Bleda himself might by their report be done away.
There, then, he stayed, increasing in the love of all, and habituating himself to the language, the sports, and the manners of the people. He had found, on his recovery, that the purse of gold pieces which he had borne with him from Dalmatia, and which had been but little diminished on the journey, had been carefully preserved during his sickness; and, though the amount was not very large, yet the difference in the value of everything among the Huns and among the Romans was so great, that his small store seemed grown into an inexhaustible treasure. The attendants whom Attila had given him would receive no recompense for their services; and the sports of the chase, which he pursued in company with them and Cremera, afforded more than sufficient provision for his followers and for himself. Ruga declared that her house had never been so bountifully supplied, even when Bleda himself was present; and the simpler food, to which the women of the Huns were accustomed, received no slight additions from the hunter skill and bold activity of their guest.
For several weeks Theodore pursued this course in peace, proceeding to the woods or plains, or to the mountains, early in the morning with his followers, and retuning ere nightfall to the village. To those followers, indeed, the young Roman endeared himself every day more and more. His courage, and the dexterity with which he acquired all their wild art in the chase and in the management of the horse, won their reverence; while his kindness, his gentleness, and his easy suavity, touched another chord, and gained their hearts. If stag, or wolf, or bear turned upon him, every one was ready to defend him; and Theodore soon found that on any enterprise which he chose to undertake, except, indeed, where some higher duty forbade, he might lead those men to danger, or to death itself. Nor did he make less progress in the regard of the villagers. The old men took a pleasure in teaching him their language, and in telling him wild tales of other days, and other lands; the children clung to him, and gathered round his knee; the shepherds brought him whatever they found in their wanderings, which seemed to their rude eyes either rare or valuable. To, his cultivated opinion all questions were referred; and when they found that, ere two months were over, he could wield their arms, and speak their language, with as much facility as they could themselves, adding to their barbarian dexterity all the arts and knowledge of a civilised nation, they seemed to think him something more than mortal.
The wife of the chieftain forgot her matronly state, so far as to hold long conversations with him on the nation whose blood flowed in both their veins; and her fair daughter sprang forth with eager gladness to welcome him back from the chase, or if he went not thither, wandered with him in the mornings to show him fair paths through the wood, and teach him what fruits were hurtful, what beneficial to man, in those wild solitudes; or sat near him in the evenings, and, with her long lashes veiling her cast down blue eyes, sang all the songs which she knew he loved to hear.
It was those deep blue eyes, and their look of devoted tenderness, which first woke Theodore from his dream of peace. Neva was lovely, gentle, kind, noble in all her feelings, graceful in all her movements, frank, simple, and sincere. Pure in heart and mind, the elegancies of polished life seemed scarcely needful to her native grace. In whatever task employed, she looked, she acted, as--and no one could doubt she was--the daughter of a king: and yet Theodore's thoughts were seldom upon her. Sometimes, indeed, when he saw a flower of peculiar beauty, or when his arrows struck some bird of rare plumage, or some beast of a finer fur, he thought, "I will take this home for Neva;" but his fancy never strayed amiss to warmer feelings or more dangerous themes than those.
Oh, no! his thoughts were far away! The one deep-rooted passion, strong and intense as life itself--that one bright passion, as pure, when it is noble, in man as in woman, as incapable of falsehood either by thought or act--left not one fond fancy free for any other than her, his first, young, early, only love. When the sun in floods of glory went down beyond the western hills, he thought of her lonely in that distant land, and willingly believed that with her, too, memory turned to him. When the bright moon wandered through the sky, and poured her silver flood of light over those wide plains, he would gaze forth, and call to mind that first peculiar night when he heard the dear lips he loved breathe answering vows to his beneath the palace portico on the Dalmatian shore; he would call up again before his eyes the scene in all its loveliness; he would fancy he could feel that soft, dear form pressed gently to his bosom; he would seem to taste the breath of those sweet lips as they met his in the kiss of first acknowledged love; and he would imagine--justly, truly imagine--that at that hour the same treasured remembrances might fill the bosom of Ildica with visions as entrancing, and that memory might with her, too, give to hope a basis whereon to raise her brightest architecture. When the morning woke in the skies, and when, ere he went forth to taste the joys of renewed existence, he knelt down to offer to the God of his pure faith adoration, and thanks, and prayer, the name of Ildica would first rise with his petitions to Heaven, and her happiness would be the subject of his first aspirations.
Could he think, then, of any other I could he dream that it was possible to love any one but her? No! he did not, he could not; but, as time wore on, and summer sunk glowing into the arms of autumn, there came a deep light into the eyes of Neva, which pained, which alarmed him. He would sometimes, when he suddenly turned towards her, find her gazing upon him with a look of intense, thoughtful affection, which was followed by a warm and rapid blush; and, without one feeling of empty vanity, Theodore began to see that his stay might produce evil to her who had so kindly tended him.
Still, however, Neva's regard assumed that air of simple, unrestrained frankness, which is less frequently the token of love than of friendship. In her pure mind, and in her uncultivated land, all seemed clear and open before her. She felt no shame in the sensations which she knew and encouraged towards the young stranger. She saw no obstacle to prevent her from becoming his bride. She was the daughter of a king, but she knew him to be worthy of her love; and as that love became apparent to her own eyes also, she only felt proud of her choice. The sole difference which that knowledge of her own heart's feelings wrought in Neva was, that with her bright brown hair she now began to mingle gold and gems, and that, from time to time, a bright but transient glow would tinge her cheek when her eyes and Theodore's met. Far from shrinking from his society, far from trembling at his approach, she gave way at once to all the feelings of her heart as they arose; greeted him with glad smiles in the morning; sprang forth to meet him when he returned from the chase; sat by him in the lengthening evenings; and, feeling the deep earnest love of first affection burning at her heart, she took no means to hide or to conceal it from others or herself.
Theodore had pondered over these things for some days, and considered how it were best to act; but he deceived himself in regard to Neva; and the very openness with which she suffered her passion to appear made him believe that it was as yet unconfirmed. He compared it with the shy and trembling love of Ildica. He remembered the same kind affection in her, too, when a girl, ere their feelings took a warmer tone than brotherly regard; the candid display of preference for his society, and the interest in all his pursuits which she had then evinced. He recollected, also, the change that had taken place as simple affection grew into intense love--how timid, how retiring, how apprehensive that love had been! and by comparing those two stages of a passion he had known and marked, with the conduct of the lovely girl under whose father's roof he had dwelt--as pure, as innocent, as full of real modesty as Ildica herself--he judged, that whatever her feelings might become, they were not yet such as might ever render them painful to herself.
As the period for which he had promised to remain had not yet expired, and he could assign no cause for suddenly absenting himself, he determined to seek the first opportunity of speaking, in the presence of Neva, of the ties which bound him to her he loved. Little mention had hitherto been made of his family or his circumstances in his own land. The wife of Bleda seemed to take no further interest in his former life than was connected with his mother and her nation; and Neva herself, in the present happiness which she derived from his stay among them, appeared never to remember that there was such a thing as a past, affecting him in a way she knew not--though that past was unfortunately destined to affect all the future for herself. She asked nothing, she thought of nothing but of the present; and thus Theodore felt that he would have to commence the subject himself. Though it was one he loved not to speak on upon every light occasion, yet he resolved to do so. But still, after long hesitation, he determined not to tell the tale of his early days, when, sitting in the family of Bleda, every eye might be ready to mark his own emotions--or, indeed, those of others; for although to his own heart he put forward the motive of concealing the expression of his feelings, his real inducement was consideration for the fair girl, who might be more moved, he feared, by the words he had to speak, than he was willing to admit even to himself.
After two long days of unsuccessful hunting, having found nothing within several miles of the village, he threw down his spear and arrows, declaring he would go no more; and on the following morning, while the dew was still upon the grass, Neva offered to lead him up to the fall of a river in the woods, whose roar he had often heard at a distance, but which he had never seen, so deeply was it buried in the intricacies of the forest. He gladly followed, resolved to seize that moment to tell her all. And yet Theodore was agitated, for he wished not to pain or grieve her; but still he feared, from her whole manner, and from the tender light which poured from her blue eyes, that the words he had to speak would be displeasing to her ear. It was a bright morning, and between the tall trunks of the trees, over bush, and underwood, and mossy turf, the slanting sun poured his golden light, in the first bright freshness of the rising day.
"What a lovely morning is this!" said Theodore, after they had walked on some way, for Neva had remained silent under emotions of her own. "What a lovely morning!--how clear, how beautiful!"
"Have you not such in your own land?" demanded Neva.
"Oh yes," answered Theodore, "we have many; and these mornings and the evenings are our chief hours of delight, for the heat of the risen day is oppressive. I remember such a morning as this," he added, willing to lead the conversation to the matter on which he desired to speak--"I remember such a morning, some four or five months ago, so bright, so beautiful, shining upon my path as I returned from Constantinople towards what I have always called my home."
"And was it not your home?" demanded Neva. "Did no one wait you there to welcome you?"
"Oh, several," answered Theodore--"several that I loved, and still love more dearly than anything else on earth." Neva cast down her eyes, and her cheek grew deadly pale. "There was my mother," continued Theodore--"I mean the mother who has adopted me, and ever treated me as one of her own children." The colour came again into Neva's cheek. "Then there was my sister," he went on. "And last," he added, in a lower tone, "there was my promised bride, my Ildica, who will one day be my wife."
Neva spoke not, but the rose again left her cheek. That, however, was the only sign of emotion she displayed, except, perhaps, that she walked on more rapidly, and that her small feet brushed the dew from the grass on either side of the path, wavering, as she went, with an unsteady pace. Theodore followed close to her side, scarce knowing how to break that painful silence. It had continued so long, that, ere a word was uttered, he heard the roar of the waterfall, and he resolved to speak, let it be on what it would. But at the first word he breathed, the fair girl pressed her right hand upon her heart with a convulsive sob, and fell fainting at his feet.
Theodore caught her up in his arms, and ran on upon the path. He could not find the cataract, but the stream which formed it soon caught his eye; and, laying Neva on the bank, he bathed her brow with water from the river, and strove to recall her to herself by words of comfort and consolation.
At length she opened her eyes; and finding herself lying in the arms of the man she loved, with her head supported on his shoulder, she turned her face to his bosom, and wept long and bitterly. Theodore said little, but all he did say were words of kindness and of comfort; and Neva seemed to feel them as such, and thanked him by a gentle pressure of the hand. At length she spoke. "I had thought," she said, in the undisguised simplicity of her heart, "I had thought to be your first and only wife. I was foolish to think that others would not love you as well as I."
Theodore had now the harder task of explaining to her, and making her comprehend, that in his land and with his religion, polygamy, so common among her people, could not exist; but the effect produced was more gratifying than he could have expected.
"Better, far better that it should not," cried the girl, raising her head, and gazing full in his face with those earnest, devoted eyes. "Better, far better that it should not. Had you asked me, I could not have refused, feeling as I feel; but I should have been miserable to be the second to any one. To have seen you caress her, to have known that you loved her better, and had loved her earlier than you loved me, would have been daily misery; but now I can love you as a thing apart. You will marry her, and I will have no jealousy, for I have no share: I will think of you every hour and every moment, and pray to all the gods to make you happy with her you love. But oh, stranger, it were better, till I can rule my feelings and my words, and gain full command over every thought, that you should leave me."
"Would to God!" said Theodore, "that I had never beheld you, or that you could forget all such feelings, and look on me as a mere stranger."
"Not for worlds," she exclaimed, "not for all the empire of my uncle Attila. I would not lose the remembrance of thee if I could win the love of the brightest and the best on earth. I would not change the privilege of having seen, and known, and loved thee, for the happiest fate that fancy could devise. Oh, Theodore, would you take from me my last treasure? But perchance you think me bold and impudent in thus speaking all that is at my heart; but if you do so, you do not know me."
"I do, I do indeed," cried Theodore--"I do know, I do admire, I do esteem you; and had not every feeling of my heart been bound to another ere I saw you, I could not have failed to love one so beautiful, so excellent, so kind. Nay, I do love you, Neva, though it must be as a brother loves a sister."
"Hush, hush!" she said. "Make me not regret--and yet love me so still. Forget, too, that I love you better, but oh, believe that no sister ever yet lived that will do for you what Neva will; and in the moment of danger, in the hour of sickness, in the time of wo, if you need aid, or tendance, or consolation, send for me; and though my unskilful hand and tongue may be little able to serve, the deep affection of my heart shall find means, if they be bought with my life's blood, to compensate for my weakness and my want of knowledge;" and, carried away by the intensity of her feelings, she once more cast herself on his bosom and wept. "But you must leave me," she continued, "you must leave me. Yes, and when I see you again, I will see you calmly--not as you now see me. Yet you must have some excuse for going, and whither will you go?"
"When your uncle Attila bade me come into Dacia till his return," replied Theodore, "Edicon, who remained with me, affirmed that it was the monarch's will I should proceed to his own usual dwelling-place, on the banks of the Tibiscus."
Neva thought for a moment as if she did not remember the name; but then exclaimed, "Ha! the Teyssa--what you call the Tibiscus we name the Teyssa. That is much farther on; but let my mother know that such were the directions of Attila, and she will herself hasten your departure; for my father and my uncle often jar, and my mother would fain remove all cause of strife. Or I will tell her," she added, with a faint smile, "I will tell her; and you shall see how calmly I can talk of your departure."
She then spoke for some time longer, in a tranquil tone, of all the arrangements that were to be made; and as she did so, still, from time to time, her eyes were raised to the young Roman's face with a long, earnest glance, as if she would fain have fixed his image upon memory, so that no years could blot it out. Then in the stream she bathed the traces of the tears from her eyes; and looking up calmly, though sadly, said, "Let us go, my brother. It is sweet, but it must end."
They took some steps homeward; but, ere they had gone far, she paused, and laying her hands upon his, she said, "Oh, Theodore! promise me, that if ever, while you are in your land, you need help or aid, you will send to me. Send me this trinket back by a messenger;" and she gave him one of the small golden ornaments which she wore in her hair; "send it me back, and I will come to you, be it wheresoever it may. Deeply as I love thee, I would not wed thee now for worlds; but, oh! I would give life itself to render thee some service, which should make thee say in after years, 'Alas! poor Neva! she loved me well indeed!'"
Thus wandered they homeward; and often did she pause to add something more, and to give some new token of that deep and all unconcealed, but pure affection, which had taken so firm a hold of her young heart. Theodore, too, strove to sooth and to comfort her; and all that was kind, all that was tender--except such words as only the ear of the beloved should ever hear--he said, to give her consolation. As they came near the village, however, she spoke less, for she seemed to fear that her emotions might leave traces behind for other eyes than his; but she gained courage as they went on; and, to Theodore's surprise, when they joined the household, no sign of all the busy feelings which he knew to be active in her breast was in the slightest degree apparent, except, indeed, in a shade of grave melancholy, which was not natural to her.
She chose the moment while all were assembled at the morning meal to announce to her mother the necessity of Theodore's departure. The matron had made some observation upon the young Roman's recovered health, when she replied, "We shall lose him soon, my mother. He has been telling me that the commands of Attila the King were strict, that he should go on to the king's own dwelling by the Teyssa."
She spoke calmly; so calmly, indeed, that there were but two persons among all the many who seemed to notice that she touched on things more interesting than ordinary. Theodore could not but know all the emotions which that calm tone concealed; and her mother, as soon as she heard the subject of her discourse, fixed her eyes upon her with a look of mingled wonder, tenderness, and surprise, as if she, too, could see into her daughter's heart, and asked, by that glance, "Can you, my child, talk thus calmly of his going?"
After that momentary pause, however, she replied aloud, "If Attila bade him go forward, the king must be obeyed. My son, you should have told us this before; for though my husband is also a king, yet Attila is his elder brother, and we wish not to offend him."
"If fault there be," replied Theodore, "the fault is mine. The commands of the king affixed me no certain time; and I do, indeed, believe that he named his own residence as my dwelling-place only for my greater safety."