Early on the morning of the third day after the meeting in the great hall of the palace, Hilda and her young charge, Eugenia, were sitting together in one of the women's apartments, talking eagerly over the work at which they were industriously toiling.
The narrow but lofty arched window afforded a view of the large square courtyard of the palace. In which there was an active stir of military preparation. In one portion of the wide space newly arrived Vandal recruits were being divided into bands of tens and hundreds; in another they were discharging arrows and hurling spears at targets made of planks which, in height, width, and general appearance, resembled as closely as possible Byzantine warriors in full defensive armor. A special oval enclosure was reserved for the inspection of horses and camels offered for sale by Moorish traders. The King, Gibamund, and the Gundings went from group to group. Hilda was sitting on a pile of cushions, from which, whenever she looked up, she could see the whole courtyard without the least difficulty. She was working industriously upon a large piece of scarlet woollen cloth which lay spread over the laps of both women. Often the needle fell from her hand, while a radiant glance flashed down at the noble figure of her slender husband. If he met it and waved his hand to her,--few of her glances escaped his notice,--a lovely flush of shy, sweet happiness glowed on the young wife's cheeks.
Hilda saw that Eugenia stretched her delicate neck forward several times to obtain a glimpse of the courtyard. But she did not succeed; her seat was too far back from the window; and when at another attempt she perceived that her effort had been noticed, she crimsoned with alarm and shame far more deeply than Hilda had just done from pleasure.
"You have finished the lower hem," said Hilda, kindly. "Push another cushion on the stool. You must sit higher now, on account of the work." The young Greek eagerly obeyed, and a stolen glance flew swiftly down into the courtyard. But her lashes drooped sorrowfully, and she drew her gold-threaded needle still faster through the red cloth.
"New hundreds will soon arrive," remarked Hilda, "and then other commanders will come into the courtyard."
Eugenia made no reply, but her face brightened.
"You have been so diligent that we shall soon finish," Hilda went on. "The setting sun will see Genseric's old banner floating again in restored beauty from the palace roof."
"The golden dragon is nearly mended, only one wing and the claws--"
"They probably grew dull during the long years of peace, when the banner lay idle in the arsenal."
"There were frequent battles with the Moors."
"Yes, but Genseric's old battle-standard was not shaken from its proud dreams on account of those little skirmishes. Only small bodies of mounted troops rode forth, and the majestic signal of war was not unfurled on the palace. But now that the kingdom is threatened, Gelimer has commanded that, according to ancient custom, the great banner should be unfurled on the roof. My Gibamund brought it to me to replace the worn embroidery with fresh gold."
"We should have finished it before, if you had not placed those strange little signs half hidden along the hem--"
"Hush," whispered Hilda, smiling, "he must not know it."
"Who?"
"Why, the pious King. Alas, we shall never understand and agree with each other!"
"Why must he know nothing about it?"
"They are the ancient runes of victory of our people. My ancestor Hildebrand taught them to me. And who can tell whether they may not help?"
As she spoke, she passed her hand over her work with a tender, caressing motion, humming softly,--
"Revered and ancientRunes so glorious,Magical symbolsOf victory's bliss,Float ye and swayWith the fluttering bannerHigh o'er our heads!Summon the swift,Lovely, and graciousMaids, brave and bold,Hovering swan-likeOur heads far above!Givers of victory,Radiant sisterhood,Fetter the foe,Stay their proud columns,Weaken their sword-strokes,Shiver their spears,Break their firm shields,Shatter their breastplates,Hew off their helmets!--Unto ourwarriorsVictory send ye;Joyous pursuit,Speeding on swift steeds,Shouting in glee,After the flyingRanks of the vanquished!"
"Revered and ancient
Runes so glorious,
Magical symbols
Of victory's bliss,
Float ye and sway
With the fluttering banner
High o'er our heads!
Summon the swift,
Lovely, and gracious
Maids, brave and bold,
Hovering swan-like
Our heads far above!
Givers of victory,
Radiant sisterhood,
Fetter the foe,
Stay their proud columns,
Weaken their sword-strokes,
Shiver their spears,
Break their firm shields,
Shatter their breastplates,
Hew off their helmets!--
Unto ourwarriors
Victory send ye;
Joyous pursuit,
Speeding on swift steeds,
Shouting in glee,
After the flying
Ranks of the vanquished!"
"There! The ancient rune has often helped the Amalungi; why should it not aid the Asdings? Aha! Now let the dragon fly again. He has moulted," she added, laughing merrily; "now his wings have grown new."
Springing to her feet, she raised the long heavy shaft, terminating in a sharp point, to which the square scarlet cloth was fastened with gold-headed nails, and with both hands she waved the banner joyously around her head. It was a beautiful picture: Gibamund and many of the warriors below saw the floating banner and the lovely woman's head surrounded by her flowing golden hair.
"Hail, Hilda, hail!" rose in an echoing shout.
Startled, the young wife sank on her knees to escape their eyes. Yet she had heardhisvoice, so she smiled, happy in her embarrassment, and charming in her confusion.
Eugenia, doubtless, felt the winsome spell, for, suddenly slipping down beside the Princess, she covered her hands and beautiful round white arms with ardent kisses. "Oh, lady, why are you so glorious? I often look up to you with fear. When your eyes flash so, when, like Pallas Athene, you talk so enthusiastically of battle and heroic deeds, fear or awe steals over me and holds me away from you. Then again, when--as has so often happened during these last few days--I have seen your shy, sweet happiness, your love, your devotion to your husband, then, oh, then--pardon my presumption--I feel as near, as closely akin to you, as--as--"
"As a sister, my Eugenia," said Hilda, clasping the charming creature warmly to her heart. "Believe me, brave, fearless heroism does not exclude the most loyal, the most devoted wifely love. I have often argued that question with the most beautiful woman in the whole world."
"Who is that?" asked Eugenia, doubtfully; for how could any one be fairer than Hilda?
"Mataswintha, granddaughter of the great Theodoric, in the laurel-grown garden at Ravenna. She would have become my friend; but she desired to hear only of love, nothing of heroism and duty to people and kingdom. She knows only one right, one duty--love. This separated us sharply and rigidly. Yet how touchingly both may be united, a beautiful old legend celebrates. My noble friend, Teja, once sang it for my grandfather and me to the accompaniment of his harp, in measures so sorrowful and yet so proud--ah, as only Teja can sing. I will translate it into your language. Come, let us mend this corner of the golden hem; meanwhile, I will tell you."
Both took their seats by the open window again. Once more Eugenia's glance, still in vain, often flitted over the courtyard, and while the two were industriously embroidering, the Princess began:
"It was in ancient times: when eagles shrieked, holy waters flowed from heavenly mountains. Far, far away from here, in the Land of Thule in Scandinavia, a noble hero was born of the Wölsung race. His name was Helgi, and he had no peer on earth. When, after great victories over the Hundings, the hereditary foes of his family, he sat resting on a rock in the fir-woods, light suddenly burst from the sky, from whose radiance beams darted like shining lances, and from the clouds rode the Valkyries, who--according to the beautiful religion of our ancestors--are hero-maidens who decide the destinies of battle, and bear the fallen heroes up to the shield-wainscoted halls of the god of victory. They rode in helmets and breastplates; flames blazed at the points of their spears. One of them, Sigrun, came to the lonely warrior, clasped his hand, greeted him, and kissed his lips beneath his helmet, and they loved each other deeply.
"But Sigrun's father had betrothed her to another, and Helgi was compelled to wage a hard battle for his love. He killed her lover, her father, and all her brothers except one. Sigrun herself, hovering in the clouds, had given him the victory, and she became his wife, though he had slain her father and her brothers. But soon Helgi, the beloved hero, was murdered by the one brother whom he had spared. True, the assassin tried to make amends to the widow; but she cursed him, saying: 'May the ship that carries you never move forward, though a fair wind is blowing! May the steed that bears you stop running, when you are fleeing from your foes! May the sword you wield cease to cut, and may it whirl around your own head! May you live in the world without peace, as the hunted wolf wanders through the forest!' Disdaining all comfort, she tore her hair, saying: 'Woe betide the widow who accepts consolation! She never knew love, for love is eternal. Woe to the wife who has lost her husband! Her heart is desolate; why should she live on?'"
Eugenia softly repeated the words: "Woe betide the widow who accepts consolation! She never knew love, for love is eternal. Woe to the wife who has lost her husband! Her heart is desolate; why should she live on?"
"'Helgi towered above all other heroes, as the ash towers above thorns and thistles. For the widow there remains but one spot on earth--her husband's grave. Sigrun will no longer find pleasure in this world, unless perchance a light should burst from the doors of his tomb, and I might again embrace him.'
"And so mighty, so all-constraining is the longing of the true widow, that it will even break the power of death. In the evening a maid-servant came running to Sigrun, saying: 'Hasten forth, if you wish to have your husband again. Look! the mound has opened; a light is streaming from it; your longing has brought the hero from the heaven of the god of victory; he is sitting in the mound and beseeches you to stanch his bleeding wounds.'"
Eugenia, in a low, trembling voice, repeated: "The longing of the true widow will even break the power of death."
"Sigrun went in to Helgi, kissed him, stanched his wounds, and said: 'Your locks are drenched with moisture; you are covered with blood; your hands are cold--how shall I keep you?' 'You are the sole cause,' he replied. 'You shed so many tears, and each fell a blood-stain upon Helgi's breast.' 'Then I will weep no more,' she cried; 'but will rest upon your heart, as I did in life.' 'You will remain in the mound with me, in the arms of the dead, though you still live,' cried Helgi, exultingly.
"You will remain in the mound, in the arms of the dead, though you still live," Eugenia repeated.
"But the legend relates that when Sigrun also died, both were born again: he a victorious hero, but she a Valkyrie. This is the ballad of how a woman's true love, a widow's true anguish, conquers death, and, in omnipotent yearning, even forces a passage into the grave to the beloved one."
"And in omnipotent yearning forces a passage into the grave to the beloved one."
Hilda looked up suddenly. "Child, what is the matter?" The Princess had spoken with such enthusiasm that at last she paid no heed to her listener. But now she heard a low sob, and, in bewilderment, saw the Greek kneeling on the floor, bending forward over the stool, hiding her lovely face in both hands; tears were streaming between the slender fingers.
"Eugenia!"
"O Hilda, it is so beautiful. It must be so blissful to be loved! And it is also happiness to love unto death. Oh, happy Gibamund's Hilda! Oh, happy Helgi's Sigrun! How this song makes the heart ache and yet rejoice! How beautiful and, alas, how true it is, that love conquers all things, and draws the loving woman to her beloved, even to his grave! They are united in death, if no longer in life. That thought possesses stronger power than spell or magnet."
"O sister, does this little heart love so strongly, so fervently, so genuinely? Speak freely at last. Not a single word during all these days have you--"
"I could not! I was so ashamed for myself, and, alas! for him. And I dare not speak of my love! It is a disgrace and shame. For he, my bridegroom,--no, my husband,--does not love me!"
"Indeed he does love you, or why should the reckless noble have wooed you so humbly?"
"Alas, I do not know. Hundreds of times during the last few days have I asked myself that question. I do not know. True, I believed--until the day before yesterday--it was from love. And often this foolish heart believes it still. But, no, it was not love. Caprice weariness--perhaps," and now she trembled wrathfully, "a wager,--a game that he desired to win and which lost its charm as soon as he succeeded."
"No, my little dove! Thrasaric is incapable of that."
"Oh, yes, oh, yes!" Eugenia sobbed despairingly. "He is capable of it."
"I do not believe it," said the Princess, and, sitting down beside her, she lifted the forsaken little bride into her arms as if she were a child, dried her wet cheeks with the folds of her own white mantle, stroked her burning lids, smoothed her tangled hair, pressed the little head to her soft bosom, and rocked gently to and fro, saying soothingly: "Everything will be well again, little one, and soon; for he does love you. That is certain."
A suppressed sob and a slight shake of the head said, No!
"Certain! I do not know, nor do I wish to know, what that woman hissed into your ear. But I saw how it wounded you, like a poisoned arrow. Whatever it may be--"
"I will never, never, never tell!" the girl fairly shrieked.
"I do not wish to know, I told you. Whatever his guilt may be, the Christians have a beautiful saying: 'Love beareth all things.'"
"Love beareth all things," murmured Eugenia. "But, of course, love only. Tell me, little sister, do you really love him?"
The weeping girl, springing from the Princess's clasping arms, stood erect, and stretching both arms wide exclaimed, in a low tone, "Alas! Unspeakably!" and threw herself again on her friend's breast. Her large soft eyes sparkled through her tears as she went on in a low whisper, as though fearing that strangers might hear in the secluded chamber: "That is my sweet secret,--the secret of my shame." She smiled radiantly. "I loved him long ago, I believe even as a child. When he came to my father to buy grain for his villas, he lifted me in his strong arms like a feather, until I--gradually--forbade it. The older I grew, the more ardently I loved, and therefore the more timidly I avoided him. Oh, do not betray it as long as you live--when he seized me, bore me away in the public street--fiercely as my wrath, my honor rebelled, deeply as I suffered from pity for my father--yet yet--yet! While struggling desperately in his iron arms, screaming for help--yet!--in the midst of all the mortal fright and anger, there blazed here in my heart, secretly, a warm, happy, blissful emotion: 'He loves me; he tortures me from love!' And, amid all the keen suffering, I was happy, nay, proud, that he dared so bold a deed for love of me! Can you understand, can you forgive that?"
Hilda smiled bewitchingly: "Forgive? No! I am utterly bewildered with sheer pleasure. Forgiveme, little one. I had not expected from you so much genuine, ardent woman's love! But, you obstinate little creature, you hypocrite,--why did you so long conceal and deny your feelings toward him from your father and your friend?"
"Why? That is perfectly plain," exclaimed the girl, indignantly. "From embarrassment and shame. It is terrible, it is a frightful disgrace, for a young girl, instead of hating the man who seized her in the public market-place, and even kissed her at the same time, to love him. It is utterly abominable."
Half weeping, half smiling, she hid her face on her friend's breast, tenderly kissing a little gold cross that she wore round her neck attached to a thin silver chain, and lovingly pressing to her bosom a bronze semi-circle, inscribed with runes, that she wore on her arm.
"His betrothal and, alas, his marriage gift," she sighed.
"Yes, you love him deeply," said Hilda, smiling. "And he? He sent my Gibamund to me with frequent messages of the anguish he was suffering, and he was as grateful as a blind man who has been restored to sight when I told him that he was indeed wholly unworthy of you; but if he really desired to win you for his wife, he must ask you if you would wed him, and then beg your father for your hand. This simple bit of wisdom made him as happy as a child. He followed the counsel, and now--"
"Now?" Eugenia interrupted, in almost comical indignation. "Now he has not been seen at all for nearly three days. Who knows how far away he may be?"
"Not very far," cried Hilda, laughing; "he is just riding into the courtyard below."
Eugenia's little head was at the window like a flash of lightning. A half-stifled cry of joy escaped her lips, then she instantly stooped again.
"Oh, oh, how magnificent he looks!" cried Hilda, clasping her hands with the most joyful surprise. "In full, heavy armor, a huge bear-head with gaping jaws on his helmet--"
"Oh, yes! He killed it himself on the Auras Mountain," murmured the little bride.
"And how the skin floats around his mighty shoulders! He carries a spear as thick as a sapling, and on his shield--What is the emblem? A stone-hammer?"
"Yes, yes," cried Eugenia, eagerly, lifting her head cautiously to the window-sill, "that is his house-mark. His family descends, according to ancient tradition, from a red-bearded demon with a hammer--I don't remember the name."
"What demon?" exclaimed Hilda. "The god Donar is his ancestor, and Thrasaric does him honor. He is talking with Gibamund. They are looking up; he is saluting me. Oh dear, how pale and sad the poor giant looks!"
"Is that true?" The little brown head flew up again.
"Stoop, little one! He must not see that we are far less able to bear the yearning than he. My husband is waving his hand to me. He is coming upstairs; Thrasaric seems to be following him."
Eugenia had already vanished in the next room.
Hilda flew to the threshold to meet her husband, and the young couple tenderly embraced.
"Are you alone?" asked Gibamund, glancing around him. "I thought I saw your little antelope at the window."
Hilda pointed silently to the curtains at the door of the adjoining room; her husband nodded. "You will have a visitor presently," he said, raising his voice. "Thrasaric wishes to speak to you. He has all sorts of important things to say."
"He will be welcome."
"Have you finished the banner?"
"Oh, yes."
Seizing the pole, she raised the heavy standard aloft; the scarlet cloth, more than five feet long and two and a half feet wide, flowed in long heavy folds around the two slender figures. It was a beautiful, solemn sight.
Gibamund took the banner from her. "I will place it on the battlements of the loftiest tower, that it may wave a bloody welcome to our foes. Oh, thou choicest jewel, shield of the Vandal fame, Genseric's victorious standard, never shalt thou fall into the hands of the foe so long as I draw breath!" he cried enthusiastically. "I swear it by the head of the beloved wife over which thy folds are floating."
"Neither your eyes nor mine shall ever witness that. I, too, swear it," said Hilda, with deep earnestness, and a slight shiver ran through her limbs as a gust of wind blew the scarlet cloth closely around her shoulders and breast.
Gibamund kissed the fair brow and the beautiful eyes which were lifted with a radiant light to his own, and hurried out of the room with the banner. On the threshold he met Thrasaric. Hilda sat down again beside the window.
"Welcome, Thrasaric!" she said loudly, as the curtain in the doorway of the adjoining room waved to and fro. "I commend you. In full armor! It suits you better than--other costumes. I hear that you have been made commander of many thousand men. You are to fill Zazo's place until his return. What brings you to me?"
These friendly words evidently soothed the embarrassment of the giant, whose face had crimsoned when he entered the apartment. He cast a searching glance around the room, hoping to discover some trace--some article of clothing; but he did not find it. His whole soul was burning with the desire to speak of Eugenia, to ask about her, to learn her feelings. Yet he so feared to approach the subject. He did not know whether his bride had told her friend of his heavy, heavy sin. He feared it. Surely it was probable that the Princess had asked the girl the cause of her terror; and why should Eugenia keep silence? Why should she spare him? Had he deserved it? Had not the indignant girl, with the utmost justice, cast him off forever? All these questions, over which he had been pondering, now pressed at once on his bewildered brain. He was so bitterly ashamed of himself, he would rather have marched alone to meet Belisarius's entire army than talk now with this noble woman; yet he had boldly encountered harder things. As he made no reply, but merely stood with laboring breath, Hilda repeated the question,--
"What brings you to me, Thrasaric?"
He must answer--he saw that. So he replied, but Hilda was almost startled when he cried loudly, "A horse."
"A horse?" asked the Princess, slowly. "What am I to do with it?"
Thrasaric was glad to be able to speak, and at some length, of subjects not connected with Eugenia. So he now answered, quickly and easily: "To ride it."
"Yes," laughed Hilda, "I suppose so! But to whom does the horse belong?"
"To you. I give it to you. Gibamund has permitted it. He commands you to accept it from me. Do you hear? He commands."
"Well, well! I haven't refused yet. So I thank you cordially. What kind of horse is it?"
"The best one on earth."
The answers now came with the speed of lightning.
"Gibamund and my brother-in-law said that of Cabaon's stallion."
"It is the very horse."
"That belongs to Modigisel."
"Not now."
"Why?"
"Oh, for many reasons. In the first place, it is now yours. Secondly, the animal lately ran away from Modigisel at night, was carried off. Thirdly, Modigisel is dead. And, fourthly, the stallion belongs to me."
These replies had come almost too rapidly. Hilda gazed at him without understanding.
"Modigisel dead? Incredible!"
"But it is true. And really--except for himself--no great misfortune. A short time ago, at night, I helped a young Moorish prisoner to escape. I could not foresee that he would use the horse in doing so. But afterwards I rejoiced over it, very, very deeply. Early this morning, a Moor, not the fugitive, brought the stallion into my courtyard. The lad I had saved was Sersaon, Cabaon's famous grandson. Cabaon, in his gratitude, sent me the magnificent horse."
"But must not you return him to Modigisel?"
"Perhaps so. On no account--never, never--would I have kept the animal. I would rather have the devil in my stable; I would rather ride the steed of hell!"
"Why?"
"Why? Why? You ask why?" cried Thrasaric, joyously. "Then you do not know?"
"If I knew, I would not ask," said Hilda, calmly.
But she was startled by the effect of these words; the gigantic man threw himself on his knees before her, pressing her hands till she could almost have screamed with pain, as he cried: "That is glorious, that is divine!" But the next instant he sprang up again, saying mournfully, "Alas! This is even worse. Now I must tell her myself. Forgive me. No, I am not mad. Just wait. It is coming.--So I ordered the horse to be led at once to Modigisel. The slave returned immediately with the message that Modigisel was dead."
"Then it is true? The day before yesterday in perfect health! How is it possible?"
"Astarte, of course. You know nothing about such creatures. His freedwoman and friend; she lived in the next house. It is very strange. The slaves say that after--after returning from the Grove of the Holy Virgin," he stammered the words with downcast eyes, "Modigisel and Astarte had a violent quarrel. That is, she did not make an outcry--she said very little; but she demanded for the thousandth time her complete freedom. Modigisel had reserved numerous rights. He refused, shouted, and raged; he is said to have beaten her. But yesterday they made friends again. Astarte and the Gundings dined with him. After the banquet they strolled about the garden. Before their eyes Astarte broke four peaches from a tree. She and the two Gundings ate three of them; Modigisel the fourth. And, after eating it, he dropped dead at Astarte's feet."
"Horrible! Poison?"
"Who dares to say so? The peach grew on the same tree with the others. The Gundings bear witness to it; they do not lie. And the Carthaginian is impenetrably calm, even now."
"You have seen her, have talked with her?"
The powerful warrior flushed crimson: "She came to my house at once, from the dead man. But I--well--she went away again very soon. She was hastening to take possession of the villa at Decimum, which Modigisel bequeathed to her long ago."
"What a woman!"
"Nay, no woman,--a monster, but a beautiful one. So the horse remained in my possession. But I--will not keep the animal. Then I thought that of all the women of our nation you are the most glorious--I mean, the best rider. And I believe war will soon break out, and, from what I know of you, I believe that nothing will prevent you from going with Gibamund to the field."
"There you are right," laughed Hilda, with sparkling eyes.
"Then I begged Gibamund--and so the stallion is yours, do you see? He is just being led into the courtyard."
"A magnificent creature indeed! I thank you."
"So that is the story of the horse."
He spoke very sorrowfully, for he did not know what to say next.
Hilda came to his assistance.
"And your brother?" she asked.
"Unhappily he has disappeared. I have searched for him everywhere--in his own villas and mine. There was not a trace. The body of the beautiful Ionian who--died that night, could not be found either. There was no sign of it in the city or country. It is possible that he left Carthage by ship. So many have gone out of the harbor during these last few days, even--" he suddenly turned pale--"even bound for Sicily."
"Yes," said Hilda, carelessly, glancing out of the window. "The horse is a splendid animal."
"She is changing the subject," thought Thrasaric. "Then it is so."
"Several sailed also for Syracuse," he went on, watching her intently.
The Princess leaned from the casement. "Only one, so far as I know," she replied indifferently.
"Then it is true," cried the Vandal, suddenly, in despair. "She has gone. She has gone to her father in Syracuse. She has deserted me forever! O Eugenia! Eugenia!" Pressing his arm against the window-frame in bitter anguish, he laid his face on it.
So he did not see how violently the curtains at the door of the next room swayed to and fro.
"O Princess," he cried, controlling himself, "it is only just. I ought not to blame you, I must praise you for having snatched her from my arms on that wild night. Nor can I condemn her for casting me off. No, do not try to comfort me. I know I am not worthy of her. It is my own fault. Yet not mine alone; the women--that is, the maidens of our nation--are also to blame. Do you look at me in wonder? Well, then, Hilda, have you taken a single Vandal girl to your heart as a friend? Eugenia, the Greek, the child of a plain citizen, is far more to you than the wives and daughters of our nobles. I will not say--far be it from me--that the Vandal women are as corrupt and degenerate as, alas, most of us men. Certainly not! But under this sky, in three generations, they, too, have deteriorated. Gold, finery, luxury, and again gold, fill their souls. They long for wealth, for boundless pleasure, almost like the Romans. Their souls have grown feeble. No one understands or shares Hilda's enthusiasm."
"Yes, they are vain and shallow," said the Princess, sadly.
"Is it any wonder, then, that we men do not seek to wed these pretentious dolls? Because I am rich, fathers and, still more, eager, anxious mothers, and even--well, I will not say it! In short, I might have married many dozen Vandal girls, had I desired to do so. But I said, no. I loved no one of them. I cared only for this child, this little Greek. Her I love ardently, from the very depths of my soul, and faithfully too. For my whole life!"
Hilda's glance darted over him from her high seat to the swaying curtains.
"And now--now, I love even more than ever the pearl I have lost. She honors the love she once felt for me by sparing the unworthy man. She has not told you the wrong I did her, the crime I committed. But--" he straightened himself to his full height, his manly, handsome countenance illumined by the loftiest feeling--"I have imposed it upon myself as a penance, if she said nothing, to confess it to you with my own lips. Write and tell her so; perhaps then she will think of me more kindly. It is the heaviest punishment to tell you; for, Princess Hilda, I revere you as I would a goddess, aye, the protecting goddess of our people. The thought that you will now despise me is like death. But you shall know! I have--so I am told; I do not know, but it is doubtless true--I have Eugenia--I did it while intoxicated, after drinking an ocean of wine--but I did it! And I am not worthy ever to see her again. I have--"
"Not you, my beloved, it was the wine," cried an exultant voice, and a slender figure clung passionately yet shyly to his broad breast, and, while ardently embracing him with her right arm, she laid the little fingers of her left hand upon his mouth to stay his words.
"Eugenia!" exclaimed the giant, flushing crimson. "You heard me? You can forgive? You still love me?"
"Unto death! Unto the grave! No, beyond death. I would seek you in the grave if I lost you! With you, in life and in death! For I love you!"
"And that is eternal," said Hilda, passing her hand lightly over the young wife's hair. Then she floated out of the room, leaving the happy lovers alone with their joy.
Procopius of Cæsarea to Cornelius Cethegus Cæsarius:
There is no longer either sense or reason in concealing my name; the bird would still be recognized by its song. And now I am almost certain that these sheets will not be seized in Constantinople; for we shall soon be swimming on the blue waves.
So it is war with the Vandals! The Empress has accomplished her design. She treated her husband, after he hesitated, very coldly, even insolently. That is always effectual. What motive urged and still impels her to this war, Hell knows certainly, Heaven vaguely, and I not at all.
Perhaps the blood of the heretics must again wash away a few spores of her sins. Or she expects to gain the treasures brought to the capitol in Carthage from every land by Genseric's corsair ships,--the riches of the temple of Jerusalem are among them. In short, she wanted war, and we have it.
A devout bishop from an Asiatic frontier city--his name is Agathos--came to Constantinople. The Empress summoned him to a private audience. I heard it from Antonina, the wife of Belisarius, who was the only person present. Theodora showed him a letter which he had written to the Persian King. The Bishop fell prostrate on the floor with fright. She pushed him with the tip of her golden slipper. "Rise, O Agathos, man of God," she said, "and dream to-night of what I now say to you. If you do not tell this dream to the Emperor, before tomorrow noon I will give him this letter to-morrow afternoon, and before to-morrow evening, O most holy man, you will be beheaded."
The Bishop went out and dreamed as he had been commanded--probably without sleeping. Before the early bath on the following day he sought Justinian, and, in the utmost excitement,--which was not feigned,--told him that Christ had appeared to him the night before in a dream and said: "Go to the Emperor, O Agathos, and rebuke him for having faint-heartedly given up the plan of avenging me upon these heretics. Tell him: Thus saith Christ the Lord: 'March forth, Justinian, and fear not. For I, the Lord, will aid thee in battle, and will force Africa and its treasures beneath thy rule.'"
Then Justinian was no longer to be restrained. War was determined. The opposing Prefect was thrown into prison. Belisarius was made commander-in-chief. The priests proclaimed the pious Bishop's dream from the pulpits of all the basilicas. The soldiers were ordered by hundreds to the churches, where courage was preached to them. Court officials told the dream in the streets, in the harbor, and on the ships. By the command of the Empress, Megas, her handsomest court poet, put it into Greek and Latin verses. They are astonishingly bad, worse than even our Megas usually writes; but they are easy to learn, so by day and night soldiers and sailors sing them in the streets and the wine-shops, as children sing in the dark to keep their courage up; for our heroes really do not yet feel very anxious to make the holy voyage to Carthage. So we shout incessantly,--
"Christus came to the holy Bishop; Christus warned Justinian:'Avenge Christus, Justinianus, on the wicked Arian.Christus himself will slay the Vandals, Africa give to thy hand!'"
"Christus came to the holy Bishop; Christus warned Justinian:'Avenge Christus, Justinianus, on the wicked Arian.Christus himself will slay the Vandals, Africa give to thy hand!'"
The poem has two merits: first, it can be repeated as often as you please; secondly, it makes no difference with which verse you begin. The Empress says--and of course she must know--that the Holy Ghost inspired Megas.
We are working night and day. The shaggy little nags of the Huns are neighing in the streets of Constantinople. Among these troops are six hundred excellent mounted archers, commanded by the Hunnish chiefs, Aigan and Bleda, Ellak and Bala. There are also six hundred Herulians, led by Fara, a Prince of that people. They are Germans in Justinian's pay; for "Only diamond cuts diamond," Narses says: "always Germans against Germans is our favorite old game."
Strong bands of other Barbarians march also through our streets: Isaurians, Armenians, and others, under their own leaders. We call them our allies; that is, we "give" them money or grain, for which they pay with the blood of their sons. Among the nations of our own empire, the Thracians and Illyrians are the best soldiers. In the harbor the ships are rocking, impatiently tugging at their anchors in the east wind, their eager prows turned toward the west.
The army is gradually being placed on board of the fleet: eleven thousand foot, five thousand horse, upon five hundred keels, with twenty thousand sailors. Among them, as the best war-ships, are one hundred and two swift-sailing galleys manned by two thousand rowers from Constantinople; the other sailors are Egyptians, Ionians, and Cilicians. The whole array presents a beautiful warlike spectacle which I would rather gaze at than describe; but the most glorious part of it is the hero Belisarius, surrounded by his bodyguard, the shield and lance bearers, battle-tried men, selected from all the nations of the earth.
* * * * *
Already half the voyage lies behind us. I am writing these lines to you in the harbor of Syracuse.
Hitherto everything has been wonderfully successful; the goddess Tyche, whom you Latins call Fortuna, is certainly blowing our sails. The embarkation was completed by the end of June. Then the General's ship, which was to convey Belisarius, was summoned to the shore in front of the imperial palace. Archbishop Epiphanius of Constantinople appeared on board; an Arian whom he had just baptized into the Catholic faith was brought on deck as the last man; then he blessed the ship, Belisarius, and all the rest of us, including the Pagan Huns, went down into his boat again, and, amid the exulting shouts of thousands, led the way, in advance of the General's vessel, for the whole fleet. We are very pious people, all of us whom the Empress and the dutifully dreaming Bishop and Justinian send forth to extirpate the heretics. It is a holy war--we are fighting for the Christus. We have said it so often that we now believe it ourselves.
Our course led past Perinthus--it is now called Heraclea--to Abydos. There some drunken Huns began to fight among themselves, and two of them killed a third. Belisarius instantly ordered both to be hung on a hill above the city. The Huns, especially the kinsmen of the two who were executed, made a great outcry: according to their law murder is not punished with death. I suppose the justice of the Huns permits the heirs of the murdered man to carouse with the murderers at their expense till they all lie senseless on the ground together. And when they wake, they kiss each other, and all is forgotten; for the Huns are worse drinkers than the Germans--and that is saying a great deal. Their pay contract only requires them to fight for the Emperor; he is not permitted to deal with them according to the Roman law. Belisarius assembled the Huns under the gallows from which the two were dangling, surrounded them with his most loyal men, and roared at them like a lion. I don't believe they understood his Latin, or rather mine, for I taught him the speech; but he pointed often enough to the men on the gallows: they understood that. And now they obey like lambs.
The voyage continued past Sigeum, Tænarum, Metone, where many of our men died, for the commissary at Constantinople, instead of baking the soldiers' bread twice, had lowered it, as raw dough, into the public baths (how appetizing! but, to be sure, it cost nothing); and when it was completely saturated with water, had it browned quickly on the outside upon red-hot plates. So it weighed much heavier (the Emperor pays for it by weight), and he gained several ounces in every pound. But it gently melted into most evil-smelling mush, and five hundred of our men died from it. The Emperor was informed; but Theodora interceded for the poor commissary (he is said to have paid one-tenth of his profits for her Christian mediation), and the man received only a reprimand, so we heard later. From Metone we went past Zacynthos to Sicily, where, at the end of sixteen days, we dropped anchor in an old roadstead, now unused,--the place is called Caucana,--opposite Mount Ætna.
Now heavy thoughts assailed the hero Belisiarius. He so thirsts for battle that he dashes blindly wherever a foe is pointed out. Yet anxiety is increasing. Not one of the numerous spies who were sent from Constantinople to Carthage long before our departure has returned--neither to Constantinople, nor to any of the stopping-places on our route that were assigned to them. So the General knows as much about the Vandals as he does of the people in the moon.
What kind of people they are, their method of warfare, how he is to reach them--he has no idea. Besides the soldiers have fallen back into their old fear of Genseric's fleet, and there is no Empress on board who might order some one to dream again. The limping trochees of the court poet are rarely sung; the men have grown disgusted with the verses; if any one strikes up the air half unwillingly, two others instantly drown his voice. Only the Huns and the Herulians--to the disgrace of the Romans, be it said--refrain from open lamentations; they remain sullenly silent. But our warriors, the Romans, do not shrink from loudly exclaiming that they would fight bravely enough on land, they are used to it; but if the enemy should assail them on the open sea, they would force the sailors to make off with sails and oars as fast as possible. They could not fight Germans, waves, and wind, all at the same time, upon rocking ships, and it was not in their contract for military service. Belisarius, however, feels most disturbed by his uncertainty concerning the plans of the enemy. Where is this universally dreaded fleet hiding? It is becoming mysterious now that we see and hear nothing of it. Is it lying concealed behind one of the neighboring islands? Or is it lurking, on the watch for us, upon the coast of Africa? Where and when shall we land?
I said yesterday that he ought to have considered this somewhat earlier. But he muttered something in his beard, and begged me to atone for his errors to the best of my ability. I must go to Syracuse and, on the pretext of buying provisions from your Ostrogoth Counts, inquire everything about these Vandals, of whom he is ignorant and yet ought to know. So I have been here in Syracuse since yesterday, asking everybody about the Vandals, and they all laugh at me, saying: "Why, if Belisarius does not know, how should we? We are not at war with them." It seems to me that the insolent fellows are right.