Near a bend of the Tibiscus, on a meadow that might have refreshed the weary eye in summer by its beautiful verdure, the Romans pitched their tents at the close of their first day's journey in the land of the Huns. The night was dark and gloomy; no golden sunset had cheered the world on the departure of the light; and covering all the heavens, in long wavy lines from the horizon to the zenith, stretched out a canopy of heavy clouds, like waves of molten lead rolled over the sky. Maximin, struck and pleased with Theodore, had invited him to his tent; and there, by skilful and kindly inquiries, he won from the son of Paulinus a sketch of all the events which had affected him personally since the death of his father. There was much that Theodore omitted, because he trifled not with the confidence of others; but Maximin learned enough to show him that the youth was held by Attila in a state of honourable, but unwilling captivity; and he resolved to use his best efforts to redeem him from such a situation.
While they thus conversed by the dull lamplight, the pattering of some heavy drops of rain was heard upon the tent, and, mingled with the rushing murmur of the Tibiscus, came the low sobbing of the rising wind. Their conversation, however, was too interesting to allow them to give much attention to the storm without; for, besides the feelings of sympathy which Theodore had excited in the bosom of the noble Maximin, he had much information to communicate concerning the manners and habits of the Huns, and the character of Attila himself; all which the ambassador knew might prove most valuable to him at an after period.
The rain increased while they talked; the river roared and raged; the wind rose into fierce gusts, and the poles of the tent were seen to quiver under the violent blasts, while the trickling drops began to welter through the tent, and threatened to extinguish the light. At length, after a long moaning sound, a fiercer gust than all the rest swept the sky; the tent-poles shook, bent, gave way, tearing up the earth into which they were driven; the cords and pegs which stretched out the covering were broken or loosened in a moment, and the tent, with all that it contained, was dashed with fury to the ground.
As soon as Maximin and Theodore could disentangle themselves from the fallen mass, they found that the whole of their little encampment had shared the same fate. All was confusion and disarray. Every light had been extinguished: the torches, drenched with the fallen deluge, could not be lighted. The night was as black as the jaws of Acheron; and all that could be distinguished was a glistering line of water, every moment approaching nearer, as the Tibiscus, filled by a thousand mountain-torrents, began to overflow the meadow in which the Roman tents had been pitched.
While engaged in removing, with difficulty and haste, the horses and baggage to a more elevated situation, a number of lights were seen coming over the nearest hill; and in a few moments forty or fifty Huns, bearing torches of resinous pine, which neither the rain extinguished nor the wind blew out, came down to render assistance to the party of whose encampment in the neighbourhood they had heard before the storm. While some remained to aid in saving the baggage from the encroaching Tibiscus, others led Maximin, Theodore, and their companions towards the village, which they said was not far off; and as they went, Theodore saw several of the new-comers sporting, as an old acquaintance, with the negro Zercon, who had returned with him.
Calling the unhappy jester to him, Theodore asked who were to be their entertainers; and a feeling of pain, as well as interest, passed through his bosom, when he heard that their steps were bent towards the dwelling of Bleda's widow.
"I knew not that the village was so near the river," said Theodore, "and yet I know the country well."
"She dwells not where she did dwell," replied Zercon. "When gall is mingled with hydromel, we abhor the sweet drink that we used to love, and its very sweetness makes the bitter more nauseous. Scenes that we have loved, when associated with painful memories, like honey mixed with gall, are more repugnant to us from the remains of sweetness. She has never dwelt where she did dwell since her husband's death. It was in visiting that spot, after having been hidden for many weeks, that I was found by the soldiers of Attila, and driven on foot to Margus."
Theodore made no reply, but walked on thoughtfully by the side of Maximin. In a few minutes they saw before them the village towards which their steps were bent, and the porch of the widow's dwelling, from the windows of which streamed forth many a light to guide them on the way; and gladly the Romans approached the hospitable walls which promised them shelter from the inclemency of the weather.
As they entered the wooden portico, the widow of Bleda, and a number of other women, came forth to meet them, but Neva was not among the rest. With a calm but somewhat sad demeanour, the widow welcomed Maximin, and his companion Priscus, and Edicon, who followed next. But when her eyes fell upon Theodore she paused for a moment, and gazed on him with a dark and melancholy look. At length the tears burst forth in large drops from her eyes; and, casting her arms round the young Roman, whom in his illness she attended as her own child, she exclaimed, "It was not your fault, my son! it was not your fault! Be you welcome also!"
The table was already spread for a banquet in the great hall. Three blazing fires of odorous pine were lighted to dry the garments of the guests, and everything bespoke rapid preparations made to exercise the kindest rites of hospitality. No sooner were their vestments dry, than large portions of venison, and various kinds of game from the neighbouring woods, were set before them; and while the widow stood by to see that nothing was wanting to their comfort a fair train of girls, followed by several slaves, came in to hand the cups of rich and excellent wine, which flowed abundantly around. At their head appeared Neva, the daughter of the house. She was clad in deep gray cloth, with broad furs of sable bordering her robe. Her arms, up to the shoulders, were bare, and the snowy whiteness of her skin, beside those dark furs, looked like Indian ivory contrasted with ebony.
Theodore saw her enter with feelings of deep agitation, for he feared lest she should be pained and grieved by the sight of him for whom she had done and suffered so much. It would appear, however, that some one had prepared her for his presence, for she looked not upon him when first she entered, but went round with the rest, and only raised her eyes once to his countenance ere she approached him in turn. That one glance showed Theodore that she recognised him, but was nevertheless quite calm; and when she approached him, and took a cup of wine from one of the attendants to give it to him, she stood by his side, and looking in his face with a melancholy smile, she said aloud, "How art thou, my brother? Art thou well after thy long journey? And hast thou seen the friends thou lovest? And are they happy?"
Theodore could have wept; there was something so sad, and yet so resigned under her grief, in the tone of that fair young creature, who, if ever sorrow spared a human breast, should surely have been sheltered from the arrows of adversity. He strove against his feelings, however, and replied calmly, thanking her for all her kindness and all her generosity. Maximin gazed with some surprise to see the tender interest which the family of the dead king seemed to take in his countryman, but he made no remark aloud; and retiring soon from the banquet, the whole party of journeyers sought repose.
Weariness made most of them sleep long; but Theodore was awake and up by the dawning day. Sleep would not visit him in that dwelling; and with the first gray light of the morning he left the chamber which had been assigned him. He found Zercon the jester stretched, sleeping, on a skin at his door; and the moment the passing of the young Roman woke him, he started up, and ran away through some of the passages of the house. Theodore went on into the porch and gazed out, and in a moment after Neva was by his side.
"I bade poor Zercon watch for you, Theodore," she said, "because I wished to ask you, ere you went, to wander for an hour once more with Neva in the morning woods. Will you not, my brother? I have many a question to ask you, and I cannot ask them here, where everybody may hear them or interrupt them. Will you not come, my brother?"
"Willingly, sweet Neva," replied Theodore, still holding the hand she had given him in his. "Let us go." And they wandered forth together along a path which, winding in among the trees, turned at each step of the hill, showing the woody world below under some new aspect every moment. The wind had cleared the sky, and the day was fine; but Neva seemed more sad than on the night before. She said but little for some way as they wandered on, but asked him questions about his journey in a wild, rambling way. At length, however, with a forced smile but a trembling tone, she said, "And of course you saw your promised bride?"
"I did," said Theodore, "and I told her that I twice owed my life to you, in sickness and in danger."
Neva, however, seemed to take but little notice of his reply. Continuing, apparently in the same train of thought in which she had begun, "And did you think her very beautiful?" she said--"as beautiful as ever?"
"More so," answered Theodore, "far more so."
Neva smiled. "May you be happy!" she said; "may you be happy! Doubtless the time since I saw you last has been a happy time to you and her, but it has been a terrible time to me and mine. You know that they came and slew my father, even on his couch of rest?" and she fixed her full bright eyes upon him with a look of painful earnestness.
Theodore saw that she waited his answer, and replied, "I heard so, for the first time, three days ago, at Margus."
"Did you not know it before?" she cried, eagerly. "Did no one tell it you? Did you not know that it would be so?"
"Never!" answered Theodore. "How could I guess that so fearful, so terrible a deed was so near its accomplishment?"
"Thank God for that!" she cried; "thank God for that! That is peace and balm indeed. But let us sit down here," she added, pausing at a rocky bank, where a break in the woods snowed the country stretched beneath their feet, and the Tibiscus wandering in the distance--"let us sit down here, and talk over it all. Oh, Theodore! my heart has been sad since I saw you. They came and slew my father in the night, and I knelt at the feet of his terrible brother and begged for his life in vain; and afterward they said that it was for what he had done against you that he was slain. I feared and fancied that you had stirred up Attila against him, and I remembered that I had set you free, and that I--I might thus have had a share in my father's death."
She paused for a moment, terribly agitated; but, ere Theodore could find words to comfort her, she went on rapidly: "But think not," she said, "think not, for one moment, that, even had it been so, I would have wished what I had done undone. I saved the innocent from the cruel death they meditated against him. I saved the good and the innocent, and I had naught to do with the rest. Yet it was terrible, Theodore--oh how terrible!--to think that I had aided to spill my father's blood, by saving him that I love;" and, leaning her head upon his shoulder, she wept long and bitterly.
"Weep not, Neva!" said Theodore, "weep not, my sister! You did but what was generous and noble, and that deed had no share in your father's death. All my own followers but one or two had escaped when I was taken, and they, not I, bore to the ears of the king the tidings of what had happened. I did nothing to provoke him against thy father; but, had I been slain, the wrath of Attila would have been still greater. Weep not, dear Neva!" he continued, as her tears, having once more burst forth, flowed on apace; "weep not!" And, holding her in his arms, he called up every argument to console her. He held her in his arms; he used many a tender and endearing epithet; he even pressed his lips upon her cheek; and yet no feeling but one, pure, noble, and generous, was in his heart at that moment. There was a being that loved him with the most devoted affection which the human heart can feel, clinging to him in her deep distress, weeping on his bosom, pouring out her griefs and apprehensions to his ear; and though he could not return her love as love, yet his heart told him that he would be ungrateful if he felt towards her otherwise than as a brother. The kiss that he pressed upon her cheek was not cold, because it was kindly; and the arms which encircled her held her tenderly, because gratefully: but it was with the embrace of fraternal protection. Shame upon those who cannot comprehend such feelings! That kiss and that embrace seemed but to say, "Neva, you have lost your father, but you have yet one in the world who, if he cannot, if he ought not to feel for you as you feel for him, will protect, will console, will sympathize with you--nay, will love you dearly, tenderly, though with but a brother's love."
Neva felt that it was so. She would have started from his arms with fear had there been aught of passion in their touch; she would have fled from him for ever had there been aught of fire on his lips; but it was all kindly tenderness, and she laid her head upon his shoulder to weep as she would have done upon a brother's.
After a while her tears ceased, and she looked up. "You have taken the thorn from my heart, Theodore," she said; "I shall now sleep at nights. My fancy had conjured up many strange things; for though I knew you to be kind and generous, yet I knew you had been greatly wronged, and that the poor Arab, who had watched you with me through a long, sad sickness, had been slain by my father's commands; and I thought that, in your anger, you might have gone back to Attila and demanded blood for blood. Then I, by saving you, might have slain my own father; and I was afraid to ask my own heart if I would not have done so even if I had known how it was all to end. But you give me peace by telling me that the end would have been the same, even had you been slain."
"The end might have been worse, my sister," replied Theodore, "for Attila's wrath might have known no bounds; and besides, his anger against your father was of no new date. I heard him warn him months before, that the cup of his indignation was full, and that another drop would make it run over. That drop was certainly the death of the poor Arab, Cremera, but of that Attila was aware ere I reached his dwelling after my escape, and the vengeance he took was all unasked by me."
"Oh, thanks be to the gods!" replied Neva, gladly, "for I have felt as if a rock had fallen upon my heart and crushed it ever since that thought crossed my mind. But now, Theodore, now I am happy."
"And happy, entirely happy, should I too be, dear Neva," replied Theodore, "if I could find any way of showing to you my deep gratitude and regard. Oh, Neva, that I could be a brother to you, and protect you against danger and sorrow, and wipe every tear away from your eyes!"
"And so you shall," she answered, with a smile which had still its share of sadness; though, as soon as the bitterness of her tears was over, she had withdrawn herself gently from the young Roman's arms, and now sat apart. "And so you shall. You shall wed your fair bride, and I will come and dwell near you, and see your happiness, and find pleasure in it too, Theodore, and never be envious; and you will be kind to me; and she will too, I am sure, for your sake. All the time too, that you dwell among the Huns, I will watch for moments to help and befriend you, so that I shall have a right to share in your regard and in hers too; and then, perhaps, the end of our days may glide by in peace. Oh, how gladly will I devote a whole life to guard and care for you! Remember, too, your promise! Send to Neva when you need aid or counsel. Aid, strong and powerful, she can procure you even yet; counsel, if she cannot give it wisely, she can obtain from those who can. And now let us return, my brother. You will be glad to know that you have made poor Neva as happy as it is possible for her to be."
Thus saying, and with one of those blander and more beaming smiles which Theodore had often seen upon her face, ere yet a grief had shaded it, she turned and led the way down the hill. The world were now all abroad; but she took her way on through the midst by the young Roman's side, seemingly careless of all attempt to conceal an attachment for which she felt no shame.
Splendour and feasting reigned in the halls of Attila. Round the immense hall of his cottage palace were spread tables on every side; and the wooden walls, quaintly carved and ornamented, were further decorated for the festal day by large green boughs torn from the fir, the laurel, and the ilex. These, gathered together in a knot with cords of woven rushes, were fixed against the panels as high up as a man could reach; and, bending over like a plume of feathers, each nodded above some trophy of barbarian arms, the shield, the bow, the spear, the corslet, which, tastefully grouped together, hung, not without poetic meaning, in the midst of the evergreens. Above all waved a thousand banners, and between the trophies enormous torches shed a light redder than that of day, but scarcely less bright than noon.
Below, six long tables were covered with an immense mass of gold and silver. Cups, vases, bekers, of every form and shape, glittered on those boards; while round about, seated at easy distances, appeared all those bold and ruthless chiefs who, under the command of a greater mind, led on the myriads of Attila to battle. There might be seen every garb, from the furs of the extreme North to the silks and linen of the far East; and there, upon the persons of those daring leaders, blazed gems and precious stones of which the voluptuous monarchs of Persia and of India might have been envious. There, too, were all faces, forms, and complexions, from the small-eyed Tartar of remote Thibet to the fair-haired Northman and the blue-eyed Goth. There were the splendid features of the Georgian and Circassian hordes; the beautiful Alani, who brought a race of loveliness from the side of the Caucasus and the shores of the Caspian, and the hard-featured Hun, or the frightful Ougour, glittering with jewels and precious stones above the unwashed filth of his native barbarism.
All was splendour and pomp: cushions, of which luxurious Rome itself might have been proud, covered with crimson and lined with down, were spread over the seats and supported the arms of the guests; and the bright gleam of the torches was flashed back on every side from some precious or some glittering object.
In the middle of the side opposite to the windows was placed a small wooden table bearing a single dish, formed of oak, and a cup of wild-bull's horn: a dagger, that served for a knife, lay beside the dish, and a drawn sword of enormous weight stretched across the table. That table, with a seat of plain, unadorned whitewood, was placed for the use of the lord of all those around; and there he sat, the plain dark Hun, covered with no jewels, robed in no splendour, clad in the simple habit of the Scythian shepherds, but with more of the monarch in his looks than gems or diadems could have given, and with the consciousness of indisputable power sitting proud upon his towering brow. What were rubies or diadems to Attila? They were parcels of the dust on which he trod!
At the tables on either hand sat Ardaric, king of the Gepidæ, Valamir, king of the Ostrogoths, Onegisus, Ellac, Edicon, Maximin, Priscus, Theodore; and at tables farther off were placed Constantius, the Latin secretary of Attila, and Vigilius, the interpreter of Maximin's embassy. Many another king and many another chief was there; and nearly five hundred guests, almost all leaders of different nations, showed, by their different features and their different garbs, the extent of Attila's dominion. In the same hall, also, were collected the ambassadors from several distant countries; and there appeared humble envoys from Valentinian, emperor of the West, as well as Maximin, whose coming from the Eastern empire we have already noticed.
Viands in profusion were placed upon the table, and delicacies of every kind gratified the palate of the most luxurious: rich wines, of many a varied sort, circled in abundance; and barbaric music, wild, but not inharmonious, floated through the hall, mingling with, but not interrupting, the conversation of the guests. A multitude of slaves served the banquet with rapidity and care; and no one had cause to say that, in the hospitality of Attila, he had been at all neglected.
At length, an elevated seat was placed in the midst of the hall; and an old but venerable man, with long white hair and snowy beard, slowly ascended and took his place thereon, while an attendant handed him up a small rude harp. In a moment, all the Huns were silent, while, with careful hand and bent down ear, he put some of the strings of his instrument into better tune. The next moment, he looked up for a single instant, with the natural glance towards the sky which almost every one uses when seeking for elevated words and thoughts; and then, running his hand over the strings, he produced a wild and somewhat monotonous sound, to which he joined a rich, deep voice, a little touched, perhaps, but scarcely impaired by age. It was more a chant than a song; but every now and then the plain recitation ceased, and he burst forth into a strain of sweet, of solemn, or of majestic melody, as the subject of which he sung required.
The matter of his song was war and glorious deeds; and though the tale referred to former times and other countries, when Ruga first led the conquering Huns to triumph over all other nations of the earth, yet ever and anon, with dexterous skill, he alluded to some late exploit in which the warriors around him had had a share. The noble, reckless daring of Ardaric, the keen, sagacious wisdom of Valamir, were mentioned with loud applause; and many another had his share of fame; but still, when wonderful policy, or heroic courage, or warrior skill, required some more striking and extraordinary comparison, the deeds of Attila still rose to the poet's tongue, and a new inspiration seemed to seize him when he borrowed his illustrations from the life of the mighty man before whom he sat.
While gazing upon him, as he struck the harp, with his white beard mingling with the strings, Theodore could have fancied that he beheld the great master of the epic, singing, amid the isles of Greece, the marvellous deeds of her primeval warriors; and for the first time he could guess what had been the enthusiasm, what the inspiring interest, with which the voice of Homer had been heard, and which, graving each word deep on memory, had served to transmit the great first model of the poet's art to after ages from his own rude and early day.
Breathless silence hung listening to the song, except when, on some more powerful appeal to the passions of his hearers, a loud and approving shout of gratulation burst upon the poet's ear. Even the slaves paused in their office; and, when the song was over--after one moment during which not a voice was heard--some lip broke the charmed quiet with a word of applause, and one universal cry of admiration completed the triumph of the verse.
A slave filled hastily the wine-cup for Attila, and, as the monarch rose from his seat, gave another to the bard.
"Father of song," said the king, "I drink unto thee--may thy hand never lose its strength, nor thy voice its sweetness, nor the footstep of time wear the memory of mighty deeds from the tablet of thy brain!"
The cup was filled again, and to each of his most famous warriors, calling upon them by name, Attila drained the cup with some words of thanks and praise. To Maximin and Priscus also he drank, and then with ready celerity the slaves cleared the dishes from the table, and another service as splendid as the first supplied its place.
At every course Attila thus drank to his guests, and song and music went on, but not with the effect that they produced at first. The merriment grew higher and more loud; and Attila at length despatched a slave across the hall to bid Vigilius, the interpreter of the Eastern embassy, to advance and speak with him.
With a bending head and air of profound reverence, the cunning Byzantine approached the king. The monarch motioned him to come nearer, and then addressed him in a low tone, laying at the same time one finger of his sinewy hand upon the blade of the naked sword that lay beside him. What he said no one heard; but the effect upon the countenance of Vigilius was strange and fearful. The rose at no time flourished very luxuriantly upon his cheek, but now that cheek turned pale as death. A green and ashy hue, something even beyond the tint of death itself, spread over all his face. His eyes opened wide, his jaw dropped; and both Maximin and Theodore, whose looks were fixed upon him, thought that he must have fallen to the ground. Attila, however, bowed his head, as a signal that the interpreter might retire; and then perceiving that he could scarcely walk, the king beckoned to an attendant, saying coldly, "Lead him back to the table, or from the hall, if he prefer it."
But Vigilius returned to the table, and drank cup after cup of wine. Attila looked round to Ardaric with a meaning glance, and then he bade one of the slaves send in the jesters. A moment after, two of those miserable beings entered the hall, and one of those scenes of rude and dissolute merriment ensued which makes the heart ache for human nature. Laughter rang from every part of the hall; but the face of Attila was unmoved even by a smile. He sat and heard with calm and thoughtful gravity; and though he looked round from time to time, and noticed with careful consideration his various guests, yet it is probable his mind was far away, occupied with more important interests.
At length, gliding in among the slaves, who, with their busy services, occupied the greater part of the space which the tables left unfilled in the centre of the hall, appeared the boy Ernac, and took his way towards the table at which his father sat. The first smile that crossed Attila's lip beamed on it as the boy appeared; and greeting him with many a fond caress as he hung at his knee, he spoke with him for a few moments in a low tone, with an expression which showed how that stern heart was melted at the sight of tender youth. After a while, lifting his eyes, he looked towards the part of the hall at which Theodore was seated, and at the same time spoke a few words to his son. The boy's eyes instantly followed those of his father; and bounding away as soon as they lighted upon Theodore, he was at the youth's side in a moment, and greeting him, with eyes radiant from pleasure, upturned towards his face, while his lips poured forth words of gratitude and gladness.
"I thought thou hadst gone away, and left us for ever," he said, "though my father said that thou wouldst return. Yet I remember, when I lost a young wolf that I had tamed, they all told me it would return, but it never came again. It was too wise," he added, laughing, but with a gleam of intelligent light beaming from his eyes--"it was too wise, when it had got back to its woods and to its own way of life, to come back to captivity and strange customs."
Ardaric, who sat near, laughed at the boy's simile; and Theodore, smiling also, answered, "And so I suppose, Ernac, because we Romans say the great founder of our city was nourished by a wolf, you thought I must needs follow the example of your wolf's whelp. But did it promise you it would return before it went."
"No!" answered the boy, laughing; "and you did promise my father to come back: I know that is what you mean; and I did not intend to say that you were wrong to keep your word. If my wolf had returned, I should have loved it better, even though it made no promise, because that would have showed it loved me."
"And do you love every one who loves you, Ernac?" demanded Theodore: "if so, love me, for I love you."
"And so I do, noble Theodore," answered the boy: "ungrateful should I be if I did not love you. I always love those who are brave and generous, and I shall ever love you, because you saved my life, and risked your own to save it. So I will try in return to love you better than myself, and I will ask my father to make you a king instead of me."
"But would you not wish to be a king, Ernac?" demanded Ardaric. "Power is a great thing, boy! Power and command, to a brave and wise man, are not to be despised. Would you not wish to be a king?"
"Not I!" answered the boy: "I will be a chief under my father or my brother, and lead men to battle; but I never saw that kings were happier than other men. I would rather have some one to tell me what to do, and to make sure that I did not do wrong, than have no one to guide me, and be obliged to blame myself every day. Even you, noble Ardaric, you are a king, and yet you come to fight under my father's standard, and are willing to do what he commands."
A slight flush came over Ardaric's cheek; but he replied, without anger, "True, Ernac; but we have not every day an Attila. The wisest, and the noblest, and the bravest may be proud to obey him; but a weaker king might find a foe in Ardaric where Attila finds a friend. With pleasure we obey those that we respect, but we spurn from us those that we despise."
"That is what I mean," said Ernac: "I would sooner obey some one whom I could love and reverence, than take all the trouble of making others respect and yield to me. No, I would rather not be a king; but I would fain see Theodore a king, and striking down enemies beneath his arm as he struck down the wild urus."
Both Ardaric and Theodore smiled, perhaps to think how readily that unambitious spirit might learn in after years the lesson of aspiring; but if they thought so they were wrong; for such as it then showed itself was the natural moderation of the young chiefs spirit; and it never became contaminated, even in mingling in scenes of strife and contention, where every one strove for dominion except himself.
They looked up, however, at the same moment; and both remarked, as their glances accidentally wandered over the opposite table, that the eyes of Ellac, the eldest son of Attila, were fixed upon them and Ernac with a look of jealous malignity, as the boy stood by them and prattled of all his fancies.
Ardaric turned to Theodore, saying, in a low tone, "Were all as moderate as this fair boy, a bitter strife might be averted from the future."
But as Theodore was about to answer, Maximin and the rest of the Romans rose to withdraw; and knowing to what a pitch of excess the revels of the Huns were often carried, the son of Paulinus followed his countrymen from the hall.
Late and long the intoxicating juice flowed in the banquet-chamber of Attila; but early on the following morning Maximin was admitted to the presence of the king, and a long audience terminated as favourably as the Roman ambassador could wish. Even Vigilius seemed to forget the fear that some casual words of Attila had called forth; and, at the end of a few days, the envoy and his train took their departure from the Hunnish village, bearing with them rich presents. Several Roman captives also had been liberated at their request; but, alas! though Maximin tried eagerly to persuade Attila to free Theodore from the promise he had made to remain among the Huns, the monarch was, on that point, inexorable.
Some months passed by in the sports and occupations of winter, and Theodore became more and more accustomed to the manners of the barbarous nations among which he lived. The favour of Attila towards him was unbounded; and the commanding mind of that great conqueror was not without its effect upon the heart of Theodore. He became fond of the proximity and conversation of the Hunnish king, and felt a sort of strange and exciting pleasure in the vague sensation of awe with which Attila inspired all those who approached his presence. The monarch's kindness attached him, and his greater qualities gained the young Roman's reverence, even while the strange excess of his worse passions mingled a degree of regret in the sensations which he felt towards him.
At the same time, the favour in which Theodore stood with Attila, though it caused him some enemies, gained him many friends and courtiers; and kind-hearted, liberal, bold, skilful, and active, possessing all those qualities, in short, which barbarous nations most admire, united to the graces and accomplishments of civilized life, Theodore won the love of many for his own sake; so that the halls of his dwelling were far more frequently filled with the noblest and greatest of Attila's chiefs than those of Ellac, the monarch's eldest son.
At length, as spring began again to blossom over the earth, the interpreter Vigilius once more appeared at the court of Attila, accompanied by his son. But then came forth the secret of his former journey, and of the words that Attila had spoken. The base intriguer was instantly seized and brought before the king, on whose right hand stood Edicon as his accuser. Around were placed the chieftains of the Hunnish nation, and, in their presence, Edicon charged the interpreter Vigilius with having endeavoured to seduce him, during his embassy to the court of Constantinople, to take the life of Attila on his return. Seemingly yielding to the entreaties of Vigilius and Chrysapheus, he had feigned, he said, to enter into all their plans; but immediately on reaching his native land he had revealed the whole to Attila, who, with noble magnanimity, had suffered the suborner of his subjects to come and go unarmed under shelter of the character of Maximin the ambassador, who had been kept in ignorance of the base designs of those who sent him. But when, after having been warned that his treachery was discovered, the interpreter dared again to show his face in the country of the Huns, bearing bribes to the officers of the king, vengeance might well be demanded, and Attila determined that the accusation should be publicly made, and the crime fully punished.
Vigilius, of course, denied his crime; but when the very purse which contained the bribe he brought to Edicon was laid before him, and death--bitter death--was awarded by the assembled chieftains, both to himself and to the son who was the companion of his journey and the sharer of his guilt, his courage failed; and, confessing his crime, but laying the burden thereof upon the eunuch Chrysapheus, he petitioned for life and pardon with all the eloquence of terror.
Attila gazed upon him as he would upon a writhing worm in his path; and, scorning to tread on so pitiful a thing, he sent his ambassadors to demand of Theodosius the head of the chief instigator of the treason meditated against him. Theodosius bought the pardon of his minions with gold wrung from his people; and Attila continued to treat with the monarch of the Eastern empire, while he prepared to turn his arms against the West.
These things, however, have been related on an eloquent, though not impartial page; and to that I must refer those who would go deeper into the history of the time. This is but a story of a narrower sphere.
He stood alone at the door of his dwelling, gazing forth upon the summer sunset, as--reflected in rays of gold and rose colour from the summits of the mountains where the snow still lingered--it spread in floods of brightness over the western sky. During the day there had been in the royal village of the Huns a certain degree of silent activity, the coming and going of messengers here and there, the frequent gathering together in small groups, the examination of horses and arms, and the arrival of strangers from distant lands, which betoken, in general, some approaching expedition. As Theodore stood and gazed out on the splendours of the dying day, he thought that ere now, on such an evening as that, he had drank draughts of deep enjoyment from that well of sweet sensations, unpolluted nature; but yet, before the sun had risen again, the bright hopes to which that exciting draught gave rise had been trampled, like flowers before a war-horse, beneath the feet of fate. Perhaps it was that the indications of some near-coming change, which he had beheld during the day, had occasioned such feelings, and called up such memories; but, as he stood and gazed, a slave from the dwelling of Attila approached with rapid steps, and put into his hand some small leaves of vellum, rolled carefully up, and tied with waxed threads.
"From the land of the Alani," was all that the slave said, as he delivered them, and then departed without waiting for any questions. With a beating heart Theodore opened the packet, and, sitting down on a seat before his door, he read as long as the light of the declining day would permit, and then entering his dwelling, concluded his task by the lamp.
"You have not come, oh Theodore! You have not written. And yet to come was impossible, neither could any messenger bear me a letter hither, for the snow has lain upon the mountains deeper and more terrible than ever I thought to behold. Why, then, should I think of things that were impossible for you to do? It was because I longed for that which was impossible; it was because love would not be persuaded of difficulties in the way of gratification.
"Oh how weary have been the hours, how dull, how tedious, since you left us to return to your barbarian home! Each moment has seemed to linger on the way, longer and more tardily than the rest; and the wintry year, as it went along, seemed to creep with the laggard steps of age, slowly and more slowly, as every new hour was added to the burden that it bore. Neither have the objects around me been such as to give my mind any means of withdrawing itself from that on which it dwells. The white robe of winter has covered all; clouds have hung upon the sky, and obscured the sun; the forests have disappeared beneath mountains of snow; and the grand features of the Alps themselves, softened and rounded by the same monotonous covering, have lost those fine and striking forms which we looked upon and admired together when you were here.
"During the summer, I found a thousand objects to take--no, not to take my thoughts from you, but by recalling sweet moments and beautiful scenes which we had enjoyed together, to create a bright illusion for my heart, and make me think the past not so irretrievable, the present less painful, the future more full of hopes. Then I could gaze over the lake, and mark the sinuosities of the shore, till I could have fancied myself at Salona, and mistaken that small water, with its tiny waves, for the grander and more splendid Adriatic. I could sit upon the little grassy promontory beneath the clump of pines, and think of the mound of cypresses by the banks of the Hyader; I could gaze upon the mountains, and remember blue hills that rose between us and Sirmium; and with all, and each, and everything, one beloved idea would mingle like sunshine, giving light and beauty to the whole, one dear form would wander by my side through the world of imagination, rendering all harmonious by the music of his voice.
"During the summer, I could gaze upon the flowers, I could listen to the birds, I could taste the fresh breezy air of morning, and think of you. Nothing that was sweet to mine eye, nothing that was dear to my heart, nothing that was melodious to mine ear, could I see, or know, or hear without remembering you. But, since then, the whole has changed: ere you had been gone ten days, the snow came down, covering the whole country round, even to our very door. The flowers are gone; the air of summer breathes no more; the birds are mute; no objects that we have seen together strike mine eye; no sounds that we have loved to listen to salute mine ear; and yet, day and night I think of you; but not with bright hopes or roused-up memories: rather with a sad and longing regret that you are not with me, to cheer the darkened prospect, and be the sunshine of my wintry life.
"Oh, if it be possible, come to us soon, my Theodore; come and sooth us by your presence, and direct us by your advice. There are rumours abroad among the nation with which we dwell, which add difficulty and uncertainty to the heaviness of exile and the pain of being separated from you. They say that the king of this land has offended Attila, and that the implacable monarch threatens vengeance. All hear the tidings with fear and horror; for his wrath is as unsparing as the breath of the tempest, which with one blast overthrows the weak and the strong together. Messengers are now sent to propitiate him, and they bear this letter; but Heaven knows, and Heaven only, whether any excuse will be received, any atonement permitted.
"Come to us then, my Theodore, if you can; and if you cannot come, find means to write to us speedily; inform us what we are to expect; tell us what we ought to do, for terrible, indeed, would be our situation, in the midst of a strange land, and of a people who, though kind, are but the friends of yesterday, if war were to be added to all that is already painful in our situation.
"My mother says that you will warn us of any danger, and inform us what is the best course for us to pursue. She declares that she has the most perfect confidence in you, and that at the court of Attila you will soon learn, and be able to warn us of the result. But still I perceive that she is anxious; still I see that she sits alone, and thinks with care over the future; still I mark that she listens eagerly to every tale and rumour concerning the approaching events.
"Ammian is as thoughtless as ever, thinking justly and wisely when he does think, but seldom giving himself the trouble to reflect at all; and yet, Theodore, it is time that he should think, for every day the change that is working itself in his form strikes me more and more; and though but a few months have passed since you saw him, I think you would say, could you behold him now, that he has made no small progress towards manhood. Nevertheless, his pleasures are still as wild, as roving, as uncertain as ever; he seems to find delight only in perils and dangers; in the rough exercise of the mountain chase, in springing from rock to rock, where even the mountain hunters tell him to beware, or in traversing the turbulent streams, bridged by the ice, when the footing is scarcely solid enough to bear him as he passes. Then, again, when he has roamed far and wide for many a day, he seems wearied with one kind of sport, and sits down to weave wreaths of evergreen for Eudochia's hair, or to sing us the songs that he composes in his wanderings, to the tunes that he catches up from the pipe of the mountaineers, as they sit watching their flocks in some sunny spot upon the hill-side.
"Often, too, Theodore, when I see him and Eudochia sitting together with all that fond affection which they have shown towards each other from infancy, I think how strange, and yet how happy it would be, if the same feelings, which have sprung up in your heart and mine from the same childish regard, should with them also arise to bind them for ever to each other. He loves her, certainly, even now, as much as he loves anything, and he has, too, the power of loving deeply, notwithstanding all his wildness.
"How he loved your father, Theodore! how deeply! how lastingly! Even now, seldom a day passes but he thinks or speaks of Paulinus; and making his javelin quiver in his hand, longs to plunge it in the breast of Chrysapheus.
"Such feelings are strange, and I know not whence they arise; yet, when I think of them, I feel as if I too could experience them with the same intensity. If I picture to myself any one injuring you, oh Theodore! I fancy that I too could hold the dagger or cast the spear. Think you not that we ought all to have been born in the old times of Rome, when men sacrificed everything for their country, and even women shared in the same patriotic devotion. Always, Theodore, when my mind rests upon you, I imagine you overthrowing tyrants, hurling down the Tarquin, driving Appius from his polluted seat, or leading armies for the defence of Rome; and I believe that I could have stood by your side, have shared your dangers, consoled your cares, enjoyed your triumphs, or died in your defence.
"But whither am I wandering? Far from the present scene and present dangers, into the wide land of imagination, to encounter the chimeras of my own brain. Dangers enough and perils now surround us, without my dreaming of others; and your Ildica will show, beloved, that she can bear with firmness, if not act with energy, in difficulties, perhaps, as great as those which her fancy paints.
"I will not say, Come to us, my Theodore! for that may be impossible for you to do; I will not say, Write! for that may be equally so; but come if you can, write if you are able. Tell us how we ought to act, and we will do it. Show us if there be really the danger which rumour teaches us to apprehend, and say what you think the best way of avoiding it!
"My mother will not write herself, but she bids me ask, had we not better now accept the invitation of Valentinian, and retire to Rome? We have gold enough remaining for a long time to come, and in the Western empire we have powerful friends--but then we are farther from you, beloved. Nevertheless, what you advise, that we will do.
"Already, one of those weary seven years of your captivity has passed away; but oh! if I look back to the time when we parted after the terrible days we spent by the Danube, the space between seems interminable. Many and many a year appears crowded into that one; and yet it is vacant, filled with nothing but the tedious passing of empty hours, absent from him I love. It is like looking over the sands of the desert, one long, unvaried, interminable waste, with but one bright spot of verdure in the midst of the desolation, the few short hours that you passed with us during the autumn. Blessed and happy, indeed, are those hours, ever embalmed in memory. They were in their passing a dream of delight, and now, even in recollection, they serve as an antidote to all the cares and sorrows of the present!
"Yet those seven years will reach their end: and I shall see you again, and once more lean my head upon your bosom, and hear your voice, and tell you all my thoughts. Let them fly, let them fly quickly, though they may be taken from the brightest season of our life; yet if the spring be without sunshine, well may we long for the summer. Farewell!"