Attila: A Romance. Vol. II.

Transcriber's Notes:
1. Page scan source: Vol. II from Harvard College Library
"https://books.google.com/books?vid=HARVARD:32044090344110"
2. The diphthong oe is represented by [oe].
3. Table of Contents provided by the Transcriber.

A T T I L A.

A ROMANCE.

BY THE AUTHOR OF

"THE GIPSY," "ONE IN A THOUSAND," &c, &c.

IN TWO VOLUMES.

VOL. II.

NEW YORK:
HARPER & BROTHERS, 82 CLIFF-STREET.
1838.

CONTENTS

A T T I L A.

[CHAPTER I.]

THE RETRIBUTION.

Shift we the scene, and return to the kingdom of Attila! It was the fourth day after Theodore had left the country of the Huns for that sweet distant land where happiness, as we have seen, awaited him, and a bright gleam of sunshine was destined to checker his dark fate, when, at a short distance from the bank of the Tibiscus, two barbarians, who had left their horses with their followers by the stream, walked slowly on among the trees, wading through the long grass and tangled bushes. At length, suddenly, from a spot before them, came the flapping of heavy wings and a hoarse arid scream from many a foul beak, while five or six large vultures rose up, crashing through the branches above, and leaving open to the sight all that remained of the unfortunate Arab, Cremera. From some cause, a nail, which had fixed one of the hands, had fallen out, and the skeleton, for to such a thing was the corpse now nearly reduced, hung by the other palm; but two arrows were still seen hanging amid the fleshless ribs, and telling the manner of the freedman's death.

"Lo!" said the shorter of the two strangers--"lo! I have now seen it with mine own eyes! And this man's crime was but that he had obeyed my commands, and saved the life of the man that I loved! Shall this be suffered, Ardaric? Shall it last another hour, to ring in the ears of my people, to sound in their inmost hearts, that Attila avenges not his own, that Attila cannot protect those who perform his bidding? Think you it was really Bleda's doing?"

"Doubt it not, oh king!" answered Ardaric. "Was not the Roman carried to his village? Would not death have been the stranger's portion, too, had he not escaped? Some one bore thy brother the tidings of the youth's journey, and they waylaid him, to cut the thread of life on which they fancied thine depended."

"Ay! It is even so!" answered Attila. "Therein is it that the Roman sinned in their eyes. But they shall find that I can rid me of mine enemies and avenge my friends! To horse, Ardaric! we will to our horses quick. The cup of vengeance is full and flowing over. He whom no warning could deter shall drink it to the dregs. The leaders we ordered must by this time have crossed the mountains."

"They must have done so, oh Attila!" replied the King of the Gepidæ; "but what is thy will to do now? Thou wilt not surely ravage a part of thine own people's lands; or, by waging war against thy brother, give new heart to the pale Romans!"

Attila stopped as he was advancing, and fixed his dark eyes full upon the countenance of Ardaric. "Hast thou known me so long," he said, "and canst not yet guess what Attila will do? Am I not king over this man also, to punish him for his evil deeds when they are directed against myself. No, no! I will not ravage mine own land, nor slay mine own people. But the son of Paulinus will I protect, and even yon freedman will I avenge; and I will crush the worm that raises its head against me, even though it call me brother. Ardaric, dost thou not know what I will do? Bleda and I are no more for the same earth: I have borne with him long, but I bear with him no longer, and he dies! now thou understandest!" and, with a quick, firm pace, every footfall of which seemed to crush the earth it trod upon, he returned to the spot where the horses had been left.

About five hundred horsemen waited him there, and, at their head, Attila took his way towards the east. After two hours' riding, some three thousand more joined him on the road; and at the end of two hours more he paused, and sent messengers in different directions to chieftains whom he named. Night fell, and with the first star of evening the monarch resumed his way.

The autumn moon rose large and full, pouring over the wide plain in which the dwelling of Bleda was placed with a yellow, tranquil light: the voice of nature was all still; and not a sound was heard but the sighing of the wind through the branches, or the falling of a withered leaf amid those that had gone down before it. A shooting star traversed the blue fields above, outshining, for the brief moment of its being, the moon herself, and then ending in emptiness. A heavy bird of night glanced across the moonlight, and, with a faint scream, disappeared.

It was about midnight, and then from the neighbouring woods came forth, in dead, deep silence, troop after troop of shadowy forms; and, leaving the village on one side, they drew a circle, fatal and sure as the unerring bowstring of a kindred race, around the dwelling of Bleda. They were all now on foot; and when they had reached the distance of about two hundred yards from the building, the circle was complete, and they paused.

"Now, Onegisus!" said Attila, "what hast thou to tell of the inquiries thou hast made. Speak, and if thou hast aught to say which should induce the king to spare his kindred blood, I will take thee to my heart, and give thee kingdoms! Speak!" and he clasped his hands together, and wrung the sinewy fingers hard, under emotions that even his iron soul could not restrain.

"Alas! oh king!" replied Onegisus, "I have naught to say which may mitigate thy wrath. I had hoped that it would be otherwise; but I find--and I must speak truth unto the king--that even across the mountains the followers of thy brother pursued the Roman youth, and ravaged a village, killing several and driving away the herds of all, because they lent the son of Paulinus a horse to fly when he demanded it in thy name. Their dwellings are in the dust, and their blood stains the grass, and the widows and the children cry to Attila for vengeance."

"They shall have it!" replied Attila. "Let those appointed follow me!" and he advanced to the portico of Bleda's house.

The chief door opened at once to the monarch's hand--"And can treason and treachery sleep so securely?" demanded Attila, in a sad tone, as he turned through the first passage of the noiseless dwelling to the large hall in which banquets were usually held. It still smelt strong of the feast; and the monarch paused in the midst, folding his arms upon his chest, and gazing bitterly upon the ground.

"Uldric," he said at length, "Uldric, where art thou?"

A man of powerful frame, and countenance more than usually ferocious, advanced before the king, saying, "I am here, oh Attila, and ready."

"Is thy sword sharp, and thy heart strong?" demanded Attila. The chief bent his head in token of assent, and the monarch went on: "Go, then," he said, "and do the deed which none but a noble and brave hand should do! But slay him not in his sleep, for that would seem as if thou wert a murderer, and he a coward afraid to die. Wake him! Tell him his doom! Tell him the cause! Say he was warned, and would not hear; and that the cup has overflowed! Ardaric, do thou see it done! Take warriors enough with thee that there be no resistance. Go! go! Yet stay!" continued Attila: "stay! Oh ye gods! why have ye put this upon me? Is there none here who can speak a word in favour of my brother? none who can say aught to stay the anger of the king? All silent? Go, then! go, Ardaric! It is time that it were done."

Attila waved his hand; then, bending down his eyes again, he remained motionless in the midst of those who stayed with him. But the only moment of indecision that he had ever shown throughout his life had passed away; and, as the moonlight streamed on his dark countenance, no trait of wavering doubt could there be seen. All was firm and calm, though stern and gloomy; and the knitted brow, the compressed lip, the clinched hand, told that there were pangs, but no hesitation within.

The last of those sent upon the mission of death left the hall, and with steps which were scarce heard even by waking ears, they went upon their errand. A minute elapsed, and then there came a murmur of voices, and then two or three loud shrieks from a woman's voice, mingled with sobbing, prayers, and sad entreaties: then a dead heavy fall--and then the tones of lamentation. Distant sounds succeeded, and the noise of steps in various parts of the building; cries of grief and terror followed, and some signs of contention were distinguished.

"Bid them shed no more blood!" said Attila, turning to one who stood near: "cut off the head, but mangle not the body!"

Almost as he spoke, however, a slave rushed in with a lighted torch of pine in one hand, and a drawn sword in the other; but when the light glared upon Attila, he stood suddenly motionless before the king, as if petrified with fear and astonishment. "Oh king, they have slain thy brother!" he cried at length.

"It is well!" answered Attila: "get thee on one side, so shall no harm befall thee." The next instant there came the sound of footsteps running quickly; and Neva, with her hair dishevelled, and her feet uncovered, ran into the hall, and cast herself at the feet of Attila.

"Oh, spare him! spare him!" she cried; "spare him for the memory of thy father! Spare him for the remembered days of infancy! Spare him, because of his weakness and thy strength! Pour not out thy kindred blood upon the dust! Remember that thou wert a brother ere thou wert a king! Spare him; forgive him if he have offended thee! But it cannot be! They have lied unto me; thou canst not seek thy brother's life! Thou wouldst never slay him who has slept in the same cradle, eaten the same food, and stood by thy side in battle! Yet what dost thou here? Oh, spare him! spare him!" and she clasped the knees of the dark monarch in the agony of apprehension.

Others had followed her, women, and children, and slaves; and at nearly the same time the chieftain called Uldric stood in the doorway, and held up before the eyes of Attila a naked sword, along the blade of which a drop or two of a dark red hue was seen to trickle in the torchlight.

"Maiden!" said Attila, laying his hand on Neva's head, "cease thine entreaties; they are now vain. Yet have not I done this thing. His own hand it was that pulled the ruin on his head. He it was that cast himself upon my sword, knowing that it was drawn, and that the hand was firm that held it. Weep, if thou wilt! Go to thy chamber and weep! it is the right and the weakness of woman. Go! but entreat no longer; thou hast none now to save!"

She heard not, or heeded not his words, but still clasped his knees, and with wild looks and streaming eyes she poured forth her supplications. They were interrupted, however, by her mother's voice, who passed through the crowd like a spectre, and, with spots of blood upon her garments, stood before the king. "Ask him not to spare, my child," she said, in a voice as calm as death; "ask him not to spare! He knows no mercy! Ask him rather to give us our own doom quickly. Thy father is dead already; why should we be left alive? Or is it thy will, oh king, that we be sold as slaves? We are ready; but we would rather die if the choice were left to such as us. We are but thy brother Bleda's widow and children, and therefore have no claim upon the conqueror of the world: no, not even to choose between death and bondage. He that spared not his own brother will not spare the women and the babes."

"Woman, I did spare him!" answered Attila, solemnly: "three times did I spare, when any other man on earth, had he been monarch or slave, had died for so offending Attila. Woman, I spared him so long as his deeds affected but myself; but when he forgot all law and justice to my people, when he made ready the spear and sword to raise up contention in the land, when he slew the innocent and the noble, Attila forgot he had a brother. Neither bondage nor death await thee and thy children; thy husband's crimes have not affected thee; honour, and wealth, and peaceful possession of all that he possessed shall be thine; thy children shall be as my children, and I will defend them against their enemies. Attila sought not his brother's wealth; he sought but to do justice, and justice has been done. Take them hence, Ardaric! take them hence! she is privileged to reproach and murmur; but Attila would not that his ear should have any words that might offend him. Take them hence!"

They were removed without resistance; and, after pausing for a moment in thought, Attila demanded of those who had been present at his brother's death, "What men have ye found in the house?"

"But few," was the reply; "and they were slaves."

"Was the deformed negro, Zercon, among them?" asked the monarch again. "No," replied the Hun to whom he spoke; "we found him not."

"Let him be sought," said Attila, sternly. "He it was, he it must have been who betrayed to Bleda the young Roman's journey. Accursed be all they who supply to kings the means of gratifying bad desires! Let him be sought, and, when found, scourge him from hence to Margus, and give him up to the chief whom they call bishop of that town. I promised him to love, defend, avenge his nephew; and I would that he should know I keep my word. Onegisus, thou shalt remain here. Keep the land in peace; assuage the grief that thou findest; and see that no evil spirit rise among the tribes, to call for the hand of Attila, and divide the power of the Huns. Ardaric," he continued, turning to the King of the Gepidæ, "I could wish, too, that messengers were sent to meet the son of Paulinus as he returns from the banks of the Juvavus: let them be despatched, and tell him to return by Margus. That good priest of the new God of the Christians will see him joyfully, as this matter may have reached his ears, and he may be fearful for his nephew's safety. I would," he added, laying his hand upon the sleeve of Ardaric's tunic, "I would that friends and enemies should see and know that the word of Attila, be it for good or be it for evil, is never broken; and that any one who finds a promise of the king unfulfilled, should boldly say, Attila is dead."

Thus speaking, he turned, and leaving the hall, issued out into the portico before the house of Bleda, over which the same calm moon was still shining; while round about, in awful silence, stood the dark circle of the Hunnish troops, waiting the conclusion of the fatal deeds enacting within that low and quiet-looking abode. Attila paused for a moment, and raised his hand to his eyes as if the moonlight offended his sight. Then, striding forth into the open space, he turned and gazed for a few moments on the dwelling of Bleda. That contemplation was probably bitter, for as it ended he exclaimed, "Alas, my brother!" And that was the only regret to which, throughout his life, the lips of Attila gave voice.

There were old men who had known him as a boy, and who lived to see his death, but they declared that within that one night was comprised the whole that Attila had ever felt, either of indecision or regret.

[CHAPTER II.]

THE NEGRO.

The wind blew keen over the plains through which the Danube wanders, ere, in approaching Orsova, it rushes between the giant mountains, through which it seems to have rent its onward course. Barbed with sleet, that cold wind dashed in the faces of the young Roman and his followers as he led them onward towards the city of Margus, according to the directions which he had received from Attila by the way. He passed by Singidunum, and he rode through Tricornium. When last he had seen them, they were full of busy life, garrisoned with numerous troops, splendid with all the profuse luxury of old and corrupted civilization. There was now a broken wall, a pile of ashes, solitude, silence, and the whispering grass--already, like the world's forgetfulness, grown up upon the grave of things once bright. From the gate of Singidunum started away a wolf as the young Roman passed; but under the wall of Tricornium, a solitary hovel, raised from the massy ruins of a gate, and thatched with the branches and the leaves of trees, showed that either accident or old attachment had brought back some human being to dwell in that place of desolation. Theodore approached, but he found it was no other than an old half-crazy woman, who, when she saw him, shrieked forth, "The Huns! the Huns!" and fled, stumbling and tottering amid the piles of ruins.

What a strange contrast was it when, the next day, he approached the gates of Margus! Gradually the desolation ceased; the country resumed its appearance of fertility; cultivated fields and rich gardens appeared; the villa, the palace, and the church crowned the summits of the gentle hills; and everything betokened uninterrupted peace, and a place of splendour, luxury, and repose. As he entered the gates were seen the Roman soldiers, fully armed and equipped; but his Hunnish garb, and the barbarian features of those who accompanied him, seemed rather as passports to secure his entrance than impediments in his way. No opposition was offered, and the soldiers gazed upon him with a smile.

In the market-place, which was crowded with people as gay, as lively, as splendid as any city of the empire could display, a number of Huns were loitering about among the rest; and a Greek flower-girl, mistaking him for one of the barbarians, ran up, and while she fixed a garland of myrtle, mingled with some of the latest flowers of autumn, to his saddle-bow, addressed him in a few broken, mispronounced sentences in the Hunnish dialect, desiring him to buy her flowers with some of the spoils of the enemy he had slain in battle.

Theodore could have wept; but he answered the girl in Greek, telling her to place her wreaths on the tombs of those who had died in defence of their country; and he was riding on, when suddenly his eye was caught by a train crossing the market-place, and his ear almost deafened by the acclamations of the people. While slaves and attendants, in extraordinary numbers, both followed and succeeded, in the middle of the group which attracted so much attention was seen a chariot of ivory and gold, drawn by four white horses; and in it sat, bowing his head to the people, and scattering benedictions as he passed with his hands extended wide in graceful dignity, Eugenius, bishop of Margus.

Loud and repeated were the vivats of the multitude; and Theodore heard nothing on every side but warm and joyful praises of his kinsman. "Our good bishop," cried one. "Bless him for ever," exclaimed another. "He alone saved us in peace and prosperity, when all was death and desolation round," said a third. "Ay," rejoined his neighbour, "and Theodosius himself, who would have given him up to death, is now thankful enough to him for having saved the town of Margus." "And well he may be," said a fifth, who overheard what was proceeding; "well he may be thankful to him for saving the finest, if not the largest city of his empire." "I have heard," said another, "that Theodosius has vowed to put him to death, but that he is forced to dissemble for fear of Attila." "He had better dissemble," answered one of those who had spoken before; "put to death! we would sooner give ourselves altogether up to the Huns." "The Huns are very good people," continued another, seeing Theodore and his followers endeavouring to make their way past them. "I love the Huns; they are honest, and keep their word, and are only terrible to their enemies."

Theodore could not but smile, although his heart was full of bitterness; but he thought, at the same time, "If all these people judge thus of the bishop's conduct, how many arguments may he not find in his own bosom to justify the acts he has committed." Thus thinking, he pushed on his horse, and made his way through the crowd towards the dwelling of the bishop, whither the chariot of the prelate seemed to have proceeded before him; for a crowd of men and boys, who had accompanied it with loud acclamations, were now gathered together round the gates, the janitor of which had much ado to keep them from pushing their way into the building. Theodore demanded to see his uncle, and told his name, on which he and all his followers were instantly admitted.

He found the bishop seated near the centre of the hall, with a crowd of attendants near him, while before him stood several Huns in their barbarian garb, one of whom had his hand upon a chain, which was attached to the neck and hands of the miserable, deformed, and mutilated negro, Zercon. He was nearly stripped of his fantastic clothing, and with bare feet, bloody with long journeying, he stood with a haggard but a tearless eye, venting, even at that hour of misery, one of those wild jests which had procured him favour with his former lord.

"Faith, sir," he said, speaking apparently to the bishop, "you had better order me death if you intend to punish me properly; I have tried all other punishments but that, and therefore you have no choice left; as for the horrid prison that you talk of, I once inhabited for fifty years a prison more horrible than any you can devise."

"For fifty years!" exclaimed the bishop, "for fifty years! Say, where was that?"

"Here!" said the negro, striking his hand upon his breast; "here! Match me that, if you can. Let the greatest tyrant that ever cumbered earth show me a prison that will equal this; and herein has dwelt, for fifty years, a being not less sensible of pain, not less alive to kindness, not less capable of gratitude than any; but more patient, more enduring, more courageous than you all. Here, in this loathsome and abhorred prison, has he dwelt, scorned, buffeted, contemned, accused, condemned, and punished without guilt, the sport of fools, and scapegoat of the bad. Everything has been tried upon me that human wickedness could frame or man's endurance bear. Try death, at last! I cannot lose by the exchange."

The eye of the bishop had remained fixed upon the deformed negro, while he poured forth, in an eloquent tone, the words which we have repeated, and only wandered for a moment to the group of strangers who entered the atrium, observing nothing more than that they wore the common garb of the Huns. He was evidently moved by the man's speech, and was about to reply, when Theodore advanced, addressing him by his name. The bishop started up, and, after gazing at him for a moment, folded him in his arms.

"Theodore!" he exclaimed, "now can I welcome you to Margus; a Tadmor in the wilderness; a prosperous city in a land of desolation. But how came you hither?"

"I will tell you shortly, sir," replied Theodore; "but, in the first place, let me ask you, why stands this poor man before you thus?"

"He was sent hither," replied the bishop, "by Attila, that great and mighty king, whose words are as true as his arm is powerful. He promised me long ago to protect and defend you; and this slave, it seems, betrayed your purposed journey into the mountains to the ear of Bleda, your enemy. Therefore is it that Attila sends him hither, to receive what punishment I will. I doom no man to death; but I was about to sentence him to solitude and chains, in the tower by the water side."

"God has spared you a great crime," replied Theodore. "This man betrayed me not. Far from it. He aided to save my life, when, ere another evening sun had set, my fate would have been sealed. Twice has he contributed to deliver me from danger. Oh! set him free, my uncle. Take off that chain! it is not fitting for him. His mind is noble and generous, though his body is as thou seest. But what have we to do with that? God, wise and mysterious, has made him as he is; let us not trample on God's handiwork."

The negro sprang forward, dragging his chain after him; and casting himself at the feet of the young Roman, he dewed his hand with tears. "It is not," he cried, "it is not that you come to save me, but it is that you speak as if I were your fellow-man."

"Far be it from me, my son," said the bishop, "to treat any one possessed of our common nature otherwise than a Christian should do. We are all worms in the eyes of God, the greatest, the proudest, the most beautiful, as well as the lowly and the distorted. Take the chain from him, and let him go free. Now, tell me truly, man, I adjure thee, by whatever thou holdest sacred, tell me, was it thou who bore to Bleda the tidings of this youth's journey, and if so--"

"There is no if!" interrupted the negro, with solemn vehemence: "I opened not my lips. Was I not the first to warn him that Bleda hated him? Did I not convey to the ears of Attila himself timely notice of his brother's purpose, when Bleda whetted the sword against him between Viminacium and Cuppæ? Did I not hear Bleda vow, that, till age palsied his arm, or death closed his eyes, he would pursue that youth with vengeance, and seek the destruction of that bold Arab who dared to struggle with and overthrow him? Did I know all this, and do all this, and yet betray to the tiger thirsting for blood the track of the deer that he sought to overtake? Did I know all this, and do all this, and yet tell to Bleda that he who had shown me pity and sympathy, came, as it were, to offer his throat to the knife within eight hours of that fierce man's dwelling-place? Oh no! I opened not my lips. There were whole tribes of Bleda's people round when the boy Ernac told me that the Roman was about to depart from the land. They bore the tidings to the king; and he gained from Ellac, the eldest son, the course of his whole journey, and the number of people whom they supposed would follow him. The number proved ten times more than they expected, and Bleda had too few with him to attack them all. He took vengeance on the Arab, however: and the Roman youth, after Bleda's departure, fell into a trap baited with his freedman's blood. I betrayed him not, but I aided to save him, and he knows it."

"I do," answered Theodore; "had it not been for thee, and for one whom I will not name, I had ended my life long ere now. But say, how am I to return to the dwelling of Attila when the tribes of Bleda lie across my way?"

"Did not those who told thee to come hither tell thee more?" demanded the negro.

"They told me nothing," answered Theodore, "but that it was the will of Attila I should pass by Margus as I returned. Of Bleda they said nothing."

"Bleda, oh Roman," replied the negro, "the powerful, the revengeful, the unforgiving, is like a dry stramonium bush in the desert, whose bitterness is parched up and gone, whose very thorns are withered and powerless. His name, his mighty name, is like the whisper of the wind among the rocks, speaking of tempests that we feel no more, of blasts from which we are sheltered! Bleda is dead, oh Roman; his arm is in the dust."

"Dead!" said Theodore, a presentiment of the dark truth coming over him, even before it was spoken; "dead! How did he die?"

"Those who told thee to come hither," said the negro, "were right to tell thee no more. Over the name of Bleda, and over his fate, there hangs a cloud: the Huns speak of it not, and are wisely silent; but of this I am sure, that there are not twenty men throughout all the land who do not feel that they are more at ease since there has been one great and unquiet spirit less in the world."

"But his children!" exclaimed Theodore, now fully convinced by the dark hints of the negro that the death of Bleda had been of an unusual and a bloody kind. "His family? his children? what has become of them?"

"They are safe," replied the negro, "they are safe and well; and one fair maiden, good, and gentle, and kindly as thou art, would fain have saved even me, lowly as I am, from a fate that she knew I deserved not. But her intercession was of no avail; and to say the truth, for I am wellnigh wearied out with this sad life, I grieved more that she should plead in vain than that I should be the object for which she vainly pleaded."

"My nephew shall try to make life more supportable to thee," replied the bishop. "Thou shalt go back with him, and he shall clear thee before the king. For well thou knowest, that when Attila has resolved the destruction of any one, no land can prove a shelter, no distance a barrier, no time an impediment, till he be avenged or appeased."

"I know it well," replied the negro; "and I know also, and willingly will say it, that fierce and stern as that great king is sometimes called, no one is more easily appeased for personal offences, no one more attentive to justice where truth can be made plain. Even with his brother Bleda, did he not forbear to the very last, though he well knew that his designs were pointed against Attila, not against the son of Paulinus?"

"How so?" demanded the bishop; "thy words are dark, my brother; I know not, and cannot even divine the cause of Bleda's hatred to my nephew. He injured him not."

"I could make my dark words clear," answered the negro in Greek. "But I love not to talk of things that do not concern me when there are many ears around."

The bishop paused for a moment, and giving the attendants of Theodore and the Huns who had brought the negro thither into the hands of one of his own officers, he bade him entertain them well, and return to conduct the unhappy Zercon thence in a few minutes. The attendants of the bishop easily divined his wishes, and the hall being instantly cleared, the negro was left alone with Eugenius and Theodore.

"Now," said the bishop, "now explain this mystery, why a man in command of reason should hate and seek the death of another who had never injured or offended him, and that, too, at first sight."

"Speak, Zercon," added Theodore, "and let us know the whole, for I have heard from Ardaric and others a part of the story, yet much remains unexplained. Was it not some prophecy that--"

"Listen, and you shall hear," said Zercon. "When Attila first heard that this noble bishop had carried off some treasures--"

"I carried off no treasures!" exclaimed the prelate, "and so I proved unto the king."

"But he heard that you had," answered the negro, "and that cause--with many another offence committed by the Romans, together with some idle time on his part, and no other object of conquest before his eyes--made him resolve to pour the tide of war upon the Eastern empire. When Attila, then, first determined upon war, he gathered his myriads together on the first plain beyond the mountains; and while messengers came to and fro, in order to avert hostilities which were already resolved, the king went up to the mountains to ask a holy man, who dwells there, the issue of his enterprise. So has he done in all the wars of the last five years, and the words of the hermit have ever proved true; for he promised Attila victory, and to those who know him it needs not be a prophet to foresee that. Now, also, he assured him of success, but upon one condition. He told him that if he would ride down towards the Danube with but few followers, he would meet a Roman on the Hunnish bank of the river, whom he should spare, and protect, and love. If wrong befell that Roman, or any of his family, the old man told him, either from the hand of Attila himself or any of his people, and if, for seven years, he, Attila, did not secure and protect him against all his enemies, not only his course of victory would cease, but death itself would cut him off in his return to his own hearth. 'His fate,' said the hermit to the king when he told this tale, 'his fate is bound up with yours! See that no evil happen to him, for worse will instantly fall upon yourself. You shall do him no wrong--you shall show him all favour. Go now and seek him!' Such were the old man's words."

The Bishop of Margus smiled as the negro proceeded, but Zercon went on with his tale: "Attila rode on from that spot; but, ere he had reached the banks of the great river he was met by some people posting inland to say that a Roman had ventured across the stream but slenderly attended, notwithstanding the daily feuds that already gave notice of the coming war, and to ask what they should do with him. At those tidings, Attila and Bleda both saw the first part of the old man's prophecy fulfilled, and from that moment they doubted not one word of the rest. Attila went on without his brother, and found this youth. Ye yourselves know all the rest."

"Still we see not why Bleda should seek his life," replied the bishop, "unless, indeed, he sought to take his brother's also; and then he might have taken it at once."

"He sought not to take his brother's life," replied Zercon: "he dared not, or he would; but he believed the prophecy, and thought that if this young Roman, on whom his brother's life and fortunes depended, were away, a hundred accidents in the course of war might lay the head of Attila in the dust. Ever through life did he covet whatever Attila possessed, and therefore was it that he sought at first to take a life on which that of his brother depended. Afterward revenge was added to the same ambition; but his plans had gone still farther. His daring had increased with impunity; and day by day he was nerving his heart to contend with Attila himself, vainly hoping that many of the great king's chiefs--perhaps even some of the monarch's children--would join him. But his life and his plots ended together."

"Wert thou with Bleda?" demanded Theodore, to whose ear the prophecy of the old man, and its partial accomplishment, appeared strange and interesting; "wert thou with Bleda and Attila when the hermit told him to go down to meet me?"

"I was!" replied Zercon, showing his white teeth with a wild laugh--"I was! Attila, when he set out, chose Ardaric and Onegisus to go with him; and Bleda asked the King of the Gepidæ whom he had better choose, for they made a solemn ceremony of it. Ardaric, who believes in no such things, replied, 'Why, take your black jester!' and whether Bleda thought that too a prophecy or not, I cannot tell; but certainly he took me, and I stood in the mouth of the cave while they conversed within."

He was interrupted by a woman entering to draw water from the tank in the midst of the hall; and, ere she was gone, the bishop's officer returned to conduct Zercon from his presence.

"Use him well," said the bishop, "and kindly. Put him among the most favoured slaves; give him water to wash his feet, and food, and wine. Nor must any one make a jest of him. It is forbidden in my dwelling to mock any of God's works."

The slave and the negro retired, and Theodore was left alone with his uncle, round whose lip a somewhat doubtful smile had hung during the whole of Zercon's account of that prediction which had obtained for his nephew security in some respects, and brought him into danger in others.

"The words of the good hermit, I rather think," he said, as soon as the negro departed, "have led even the mighty and clear-sighted Attila into error."

"Indeed!" exclaimed Theodore, in some surprise; "then you do not credit his pretensions to be a prophet?"

"He is better than a prophet, my son; he is a wise man," replied the somewhat worldly prelate; but instantly seeing, by the mounting colour in his nephew's cheek, that his profane words had shocked the sensitive mind of the youth, he added, "Far be it from me to say that the gift of prophecy is not excellent; but it is better to be a good man, and wise unto God, than to be a prophet and offend. This hermit is a man of all great qualities and Christian virtues; austere unto himself, charitable towards others; holy in life, spending his years in meditation and constant prayer! There is much reason to believe that to such a one the gift of prophecy might be extended. So much did I think of his wisdom, and so far did I trust in his advice being holy and good, that, ere the Huns poured down upon the Roman empire, I sent messengers to ask his counsel as to mine own conduct in such a moment of trial. He loves me well; and for many years I have profited by his wisdom and experience, till I am what I am. To show him and all men that personal fear was unknown to the bosom of Eugenius, I told him that on a certain day I would cross the Danube myself, and advance towards the mountains, if he would come down to meet me; and I doubt not that his prophecy referred to me and not to thee. Attila came down sooner than was expected, and encountered thee on the way: thy sudden coming delayed me for a day; and, ere I crossed the river, the myriads of the Huns were pouring down from the mountains. I obtained a promise of security, however, from Attila himself; saw him, found him mild to treat with, and easily appeased. The wiles of the Byzantine court he abhorred: but I told him truth. I offered to show him mine own treasury and the treasury of the city, and that we should purge ourselves by the most solemn oath of all share in taking that treasure which his people declared they had lost; but at the same time I proposed to repay it with fourfold its value as amends. He received the proposal well; swore to me, solemnly, that he would protect thee and Flavia, and all her household; and, upon some other conditions which he made, he promised to give the citizens of Margus peace. Thou seest how he has fulfilled his word."

"I see it, indeed, my uncle," answered Theodore; "I see that Margus, like an oasis in the Libyan sands, is fresh, and bright, and luxuriant, in the midst of ruin and desolation. But, alas! alas! would it have been so if Margus had not opened her gates to the invader? If the first city of the Roman empire had made a stand against the barbarians as they poured upon the frontier?"

"The only difference would have been," replied the bishop, his brow growing dark, "that Margus would now be in the same situation as the rest. What troops had we to resist? What means of defence had Theodosius given us? None! He thought but to appease the evil spirit of the war by drawing a line in my blood between himself and the wrath of Attila; and he took no measure to defend his territories, made no effort to protect his people. How did Viminacium stand, which had ten centuries within its walls? how did Tricornium resist? how Singidunum, how Naissus, Sardica, Ratiaria, and all the cities of the Illyrian border? Singidunum resisted for a day; Viminacium saw the Hunnish myriads with the dawning light, and was a heap of ashes ere nightfall. So was it with all the rest! Theodore, I am satisfied. In the midst of the desolation of the land, where many hundreds of thousands have fallen, where every trace of cultivation and of sweet domestic peace has been swept away, I have saved a Christian people in peace and prosperity, without one drop of blood shed, either of our own or others."

Theodore thought that this was one of those few accidental cases where good had sprung from evil; but his heart, as a Roman and a man, told him that his uncle's reasoning was false. He replied not, however, and the prelate went on. "I have done all this, Theodore, and I am satisfied. Is it not enough for the shepherd to save his sheep from the wolf, though the monster be obliged to seek his prey in some other flock? Would it not be enough for me to have delivered from peril and death those whom God has given to me, without any consideration of others? But when I know, and did know, that nothing I could have done would have saved myself or benefited them who have since fallen, ought I not to be satisfied? Whenever in my own heart a weak doubt arises, one shout of the glad multitude who owe their lives to me is sufficient to put all at peace within my breast. Yes, I can look back to every circumstance, and say, this have I done, and I am satisfied! But I have done more, oh Theodore?" he added, his mind seeming suddenly to turn into another path, and a different expression coming over his countenance--"I have done more! The weak, pale, cowardly Theodosius, who, trembling on his throne, would have spilt my blood, out of the true tyrant's vice of terror--the heretical wretch, led by the subtle Eutyches to persecute all those who hold the pure and orthodox faith--dare no longer wag a finger at Eugenius, or talk of punishing the citizens of Margus for submitting to an enemy they could not resist, and from whom he refused to defend them. He dare not dream of striking a hair from the head of one of the citizens of Margus. Nor, since Attila is thy protector, would he dare to lay hands upon thee, even if thou wert to cross the courts of his palace to-morrow--no, not for his very throne!"

Theodore was unconvinced; but he refrained from reply, and turned the conversation to another part of the same subject, by relating to the bishop the kindly offers of protection which Flavia had received from Valentinian.

"He has kept his word," replied the bishop, "for such was the tenour of a promise that he made to me. Think not that I went rashly and hastily into even that act which I knew would save Margus. To Theodosius I had applied for aid in vain, and I then applied to Valentinian. He could not aid me, but he justified my conduct, and promised me personal protection in case of need. I sent him messengers when all was secure, and he engaged to give both to Flavia and yourself justice, protection, and support, in the empire of the West."

Theodore felt that his uncle was kind, far more kind than he could have expected or hoped; he felt, too, that his mind was powerful, and his heart not without high and noble feelings; but, alas! the threads of cunning selfishness ran hither and thither through the whole, and, like the veins of some inferior substance in a precious stone, rendered nearly valueless the better part. Theodore felt that he could love Eugenius; but he would not have been Eugenius for the world.

Thus passed the day; but the next morning, as Theodore sat at meat with his uncle, it was announced that Edicon, one of the favourite officers of Attila, together with Maximin, ambassador from Theodosius, approached the city of Margus in their way from Constantinople to the country of the Huns; and when Theodore beheld the reverence and respect which the ambassador himself, and those who accompanied him, evinced towards the prelate who had first received the barbarians into the empire, he could not help feeling how brilliant a thing in the eyes of man is successful evil. During a whole day the ambassador and his train sought repose in Margus--and Theodore determined to accompany him on his onward journey. His uncle forced upon him a casket of gold ere he departed, conquering his aversion to receive it by declaring that it was a debt he had owed Paulinus; and Theodore, feeling that it might be needful, made no further resistance.

[CHAPTER III.]

THE WIDOW'S DWELLING.

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.

[CHAPTER IV.]

THE FEAST OF ATTILA.

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.

[CHAPTER V.]

THE LETTERS.

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.

THE LETTER.

"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!"

Theodore pressed the letter to his lips, to his heart. Her hand had touched it, her spirit had dictated it: and the very sight of those beloved characters was balm to his bosom. The news she told, however, was painful; the danger that she apprehended great, if the rumours on which her fears were raised had themselves any foundation in truth.

Without hesitation, Theodore took his way at once to the dwelling of Attila, and was admitted to the presence of the king.

The monarch's brow was gloomy, but he received the Roman youth with tenderness. "What wouldst thou, my son?" he said. "Thou hast had letters, I find, from the land of the Alani. Do they bear thee good tidings? Thy face is sad."

"They say that the chiefs of the Alani fear the wrath of Attila," replied Theodore, boldly.

"They have cause!" answered the monarch, sternly--"they have cause! but, if thou wouldst send any letters back, prepare them quickly, for by to-morrow's noon the messengers return, and some of mine own accompany them."

"I would fain ask a boon," replied Theodore, anxiously. "In the land of the Alani, as thou well knowest, oh mighty monarch, I have those whom I love better than life itself. If thine arms, victorious as they ever have been, are now destined to be turned against the Alani, I would fain visit those dear friends, and provide for their safety. They are but women and children, and cannot protect themselves."

"Thou canst not go, my son," replied Attila. "Thou goest with me wherever my steps are directed. Thus have I resolved for thy sake, as well as for mine own. When last thou wert absent, dangers, and wellnigh death, befell thee! The same may occur again. Bleda is dead; but even for thy sake Attila could not slay a son. Thou understandest well that which I mean. While thou art with me, thou art safe; but among distant tribes, such is not the case. There, thy death might be accomplished without leaving a trace to tell me how. I know not yet whether the Alani are to be crushed as a swarm of wasps, or hived as bees. It depends upon themselves. Let them obey Attila, and they are safe; but, at all events, I go towards the western seas; and though Italy will not be visited, some of my hosts may sweep the mountains as they advance. It were better that they were not encountered by women--women such as these, who, I have heard from those who went with thee thither, are exceeding beautiful. Bid them remove to some other land. They dare not, I think you tell me, return to Illyria on account of the base, weak Theodosius; but, if thou wilt, I will issue my commands to that throned slave to receive them with friendship and favour. He dare not disobey!"

"Thanks, oh great king!" replied Theodore; "but willingly we will not tread that land again so long as he is emperor. Valentinian, however, in the West, offers them peace and protection. Thither will I send them, if, indeed, I may not see them ere they go. I fear not any danger to myself."

"It must not be," said Attila, in a tone that left no reply. "Thou must go with me; but I promise thee that, this expedition over, thou shalt have permission to visit them in that great pile of stones which you Romans call the capital of the world, and shall abide with them longer than thou didst before. In Rome thou wilt be safe; but I could not trust thy life in barren mountains and passes which would defy our search. The word of Attila is given: thou shalt visit them in Rome! and my promise, like thine, my son, can never be violated."

"I thank thee, oh Attila," replied Theodore--"I thank thee, and feel that thou art generous. So they be safe and free from harm, I am content to abide with thee."

"They shall be safe," replied Attila; "for my messengers to Valentinian shall command him to respect them as the children of his master; and the Alani shall have orders to guard them on their journey into the Roman state. Now hie thee hence and write thy letter--a weary task, I should think it! What need have men with letters? Was not speech enough? But they must still add to what the gods give them; and all their additions do but spoil Heaven's gifts."

Theodore took his leave and withdrew; and going back to his dwelling, he called one of his attendants, saying, "Haste thee to Constantius, the Roman secretary of the king; ask him to send me parchment, and reeds, and ink, or, if he have no vellum, let him send papyrus."

The materials for writing were soon brought to him; and sitting down by the fresh-trimmed lamp, Theodore spent the next four hours of the night in pouring forth to Ildica all the feelings of his heart.

THE REPLY.

"I have not come, oh dearest, and most beautiful, I have not sent, because to do either was impossible; and even now, my prayer has been refused, when I petitioned Attila to let me go, in order to guard thee from difficulty and danger. He gives me the means, however, of sending thee this letter; and although it will soon cause the distance between us to be increased, yet gladly and eagerly do I seize the opportunity of bidding thee fly from the land of the Alani ere it become dangerous for thee to tarry. Fly, my Ildica; bid our mother fly as speedily as may be; for although the anger of Attila towards the nation with whom thou dwellest may be appeased, yet the myriads of the Huns are arming for some distant expedition, and he himself has said that a part of the host take their way by the Norican Alps. On their course is danger and destruction; and even where they come as friends, perils not small, to all whom they approach, precede and accompany their march.

"Oh that I could be with thee, to guide and guard thy footsteps! Oh that I could be with thee, to shelter thee in my arms from every danger and from every injury! But it must not be: and I must bid thee go farther from me, leave the calm retreat where, even in exile, we have known together some of our brightest hours of uninterrupted joy, and plunge into the crowd of a wide, vicious, luxurious city, where thousands will strive to efface the memory of the absent from thy heart; where thousands will strive to win the hand that has been promised unto me; where thousands will deem thy beauty and thy love prizes to be won by any means, conquests to be made by any falsehood.

"Yes, my Ildica, thou must fly to Rome; and yet I bid thee do so without one fear that any thought or any feeling of her I love will be estranged from me by absence, that her affection will be diminished by any art of others to win it for themselves, or that her heart will not be as wholly mine when next we meet as when last we parted. If I know my Ildica aright, and judge not Rome too harshly, the capital of the empire will be but a wide desert to her, who has no feelings in common with its degenerate and voluptuous inhabitants. Ravenna itself would be worse; and I grieve that it is so, for my Ildica's sake, knowing well that, even were the best and the brightest of other days assembled round her, they could not steal one feeling of her heart from the first grateful object of her young but steadfast love.

"Go, then, to Rome, my Ildica! and, amid the best of those who still remain, thou mayst, perhaps, find some who will cheer thine hours during our separation, some whose example and advice may be necessary and salutary, both to Eudochia and to Ammian. Long, I fear, alas! too long, will be that separation; for although Attila has fixed a time at which I may once more fly to see thee, yet that time is named as the end of the expedition on which he is now about to set out; and it is only in the knowledge of one all-seeing Being how long that expedition may continue, or whither it may lead.

"Still, however, it is a bright hope, a hope that will cheer me and console me, though it may make the day seem long and the hours fly heavily, till they dwindle down to the moment of my glad departure. Of what may intervene, I will think the best: dangers may happen, sorrows may befall; but I will not anticipate either the one or the other, and will only think that every hour which passes only serves to bring nearer the time of our reunion.

"What I most fear is, that the arms of Attila are about to be turned against some part of our native land; for where, indeed, could he lead his hosts, without meeting some portion of the Roman empire? He demands, too, that I should accompany him; but be assured, sweetest Ildica, that the hand of Theodore will never be armed against the land of his fathers; and though, as a Roman, I feel that I should be justified in striking to the earth the head of a tyrant, or of a tyrant's favourite, by whom my father was unjustly doomed to die, there is a difference between the country and its oppressor. I might be a Brutus, but I would never be a Coriolanus. If I go with Attila, and if his arms are turned against the empire, I may go as a spectator to the war; but let it be remembered--and oh, Ildica, make it known, wherever a Roman ear will listen--that I go against my will, and as a captive; that I leave my sword behind me in these wars; that my shield is hung up by the hearth I leave in this barbarian land; and that, if I fall amid the events which may now ensue, I fall without dishonor.

"Let me turn, now, to sweeter thoughts; let me think of some dearer theme. I have dreamed, I have fancied, that after this expedition is over, perchance Attila may abridge the period of my captivity, and permit me to return, and at the altar of our God claim my Ildica as my own for ever. Oh, beloved! how my heart beats even when I think of that hour, when I think of the moment that shall make thee mine--mine beyond the power of fate itself--mine through life and through eternity--united unto me by bonds that nothing can sever--wife of my bosom--mother of my children--one, one with me in every thought, in every feeling--in hopes, in fears, in joys and sorrows, one! Oh, Ildica! what were heaven itself, could we but think that dear bond, that tie which binds the soul itself, could be burst even by the hand of death. Oh, no! I will not believe it, that even in another life I shall not know, and see, and love thee still; that purified, perhaps, and elevated, calmed down and tranquillized from the agitating fire that thrills through every vein when I but think of thee, the same intense affection which I now feel shall not survive the tomb, and become one of the brightest parts of a brighter state of being. Yes, Ildica, yes, it shall be so! Those who doubt it know not what love is; for oh, surely, if there be feelings in this life at all that deserve to be immortal, it is those which would make us sacrifice life itself, and all that life can give, for another.

"Thou thinkest of me, Ildica; yes, I know thou thinkest of me. My heart is a witness for thine, that not an hour of the dull day passes without some thought of those we love; and it is strange, oh, how strange! that out of objects which have no apparent connexion with such images, the idea of her I love is brought before my mind, and my heart, like the bee, draws the honey of those sweet associations from everything it finds. If, when hunting in the neighbouring woods, the sweet breath of the wild cherry blossom is wafted past me by the wind, the image of Ildica, I know not why, rises up instantly before my imagination; and every sweet perfume of the odorous flowers seems to gain an additional fragrance from the associations that they call up. If the singing of the spring birds strike mine ear, do not the tones of that dear voice come back upon memory, and thrill through my inmost heart? Everything is lost in thee; nothing that I admired, or loved, or delighted in before, seems now to have any separate existence in my eyes, but is all beheld with some reference to her I love.

"Oh, Ildica! do we not love each other better for all the anxieties and cares which have surrounded the first days of our affection? If so, let us not regret them, for they have been stern but kind-hearted friends, who may have chastised our youth, but have left us an inestimable treasure ere they departed: yes, inestimable, indeed, for there are gems to adorn existence as well as to ornament the body; and the brightest of all the diamonds of the heart's treasury is love such as I feel for thee.

"Tell Flavia that I love her as her son; and tell her all I feel for thee. It will be more pleasant unto her ear than aught I could say unto herself. Bid her not mourn more than needs must be to return to Rome--the city which she knew in days of happiness--now that so much of that happiness has passed away. Bid her cheer herself with hope, for the clouds are beginning to break away; and the sun may soon shine once more, if not for her as bright as ever, yet with a tranquil splendour that will refresh her heart.

"Cast thine arms round Eudochia, and kiss her with love for her brother's sake, telling her how deeply and bitterly he regrets that he is not permitted to guard her youth, and foster her beauty and her virtues, till a husband's hand took from his own the task. Greet Ammian, too, with love, telling him that he must curb his wild spirit, and keep all his courage and all his energies to protect those whom God has placed under his charge, and left without other safeguard.

"One word more, my beloved, to end this long epistle. Doubt not that at Rome you will find protection; for you have it from one whom you have seen, but hardly know--from one so mighty, however, that, alas! experience shows, even Rome herself must tremble at his frown. Attila protects you; and unto Valentinian he has sent a message to respect you and yours as if you were his children. The weak and corrupt monarch that Rome must obey dare as soon neglect this warning as fall upon his sword. The Alani, too, have orders to conduct you safely to the Roman territory. Oh that every step should thus bear you farther from me!

"As I cannot see thee, as I cannot embrace thee, I would willingly write to thee for ever. But it must come to an end. Farewell, sweet Ildica! farewell, my beloved! Remember me still, as heretofore! Love me ever! Love me as well as I love thee! I ask--I can have--no better love. Farewell, again and again farewell!"

[CHAPTER VI.]

THE BATTLE.

We must pass over the events of some months, and change the scene to the heart of France.

In the vast plains between the Seine and the Marne, where the eye can roam unobstructed over many a mile of open country, runs a brook of the clearest water, which, wandering on through vineyard and cornfield, joins the latter river not far from Soulanges.

At the time I speak of, however, no corn spread over that wide plain, no vines obstructed the progress of the eye, and nothing but thin low grass, which had sprung up where wheat and oats had been cut down or burnt, covered the brown surface of the earth with a robe of autumnal green. A wanderer, who stooped down to bathe his weary brow in that rivulet, had gazed, before he bent his head, upon the wide scene before his eyes, and over the whole plain not a living creature was seen to move. A raven winged its slow flight across the sky, but that was the only sign of life which the keenest eye could discover. When the wayfarer raised his head, however, and gazed again, a brown shadow seemed to lie upon the land near the horizon, and, mounting upon the base of a ruined landmark, he saw that dull shade creeping onward towards him. He looked up to the sky to see if it were a cloud, which, borne by the wind, might interrupt the light of the sun; but over the whole heaven was spread a thin, filmy vapour, which intercepted all the stronger rays.

He gazed again, and the shadow seemed to assume the form of a wide range of heathy bushes blown about by the air. Still the cloud advanced, and gradually spreading, like a high wave, seen rushing in a long bending line over the shore, it came forward across the plains, stretching out as far as the eye could reach. Distinct and more distinct at length the brown masses raised themselves above the earth, and in the end innumerable horsemen might be seen advancing with a slow pace from the westward. A cry of terror burst from the weary wanderer, and he fled as fast as his limbs would bear him. Ere half an hour had passed, the war-horse of Attila pawed the ground beside the fallen landmark, and the myriads of the Huns spread out over all the plain.

"Let the ground before me be cleared," cried the king; and then, poising his javelin above his head, he cast it forward with prodigious force. A hundred cubits farther than any other arm could throw, it still sang on through the air, then touched the earth, and quivered in the ploughed-up ground.

"There pitch my tent," continued Attila; "there fix our camp. Turn all faces back towards the west, for Attila has retreated far enough, and here we have space to wheel our horses on the foe. Oh Theodoric! Theodoric! thou hast deceived and betrayed thy friend. I offered to make thee a king indeed, instead of a puppet in the hands of Rome; but Ætius with his loud promises, and Avitus with his fair flattery, have seduced thee to the side of Attila's enemies, and, ere two days are over, either he or thou must die. Had it not been for thee and thy Goths, the Romans of Gaul, like the Romans of the East, had been now crouching in trembling terror at the feet of Attila. But they shall still tremble! Shall it not be so, oh Valamir? Will not thy subjects die their hands in the blood of their degenerate kinsmen? Shall it not be so, Ardaric? Will not thy Gepidæ smite the heads of the vain loquacious Franks? Attila will beard the Roman, and even here shall be the spot. Make the camp strong, and let no one sit apart from the rest. Let the wagons be placed around, and the spaces beneath them filled up, and leave no entrance but one; for if we destroy not this Roman army in the field, we will wait it in our camp, and by the head of my father I will not leave the land till it is dispersed. Bid the wise men and the diviners sacrifice, and consult the bones of the slain, that I may know what will be the event of to-morrow. Tell them that we fight, even if we die. Let them speak the truth, therefore, boldly. Ha! Theodore, my son, ride hither with me."

The young Roman spurred on his horse at the monarch's command, and rode on beside him while he surveyed the field. Theodore, however, was not armed, and he only feared that Attila might be about to ask him some question in regard either to the Roman discipline or the arrangements of his own troops for battle, to answer which he might feel incompatible with his duty to his country. But Attila, as he proceeded, gave directions to the various leaders who followed him, interrupting, from time to time, for that purpose, his conversation with the young Roman, which turned to a very different theme.

"Those diviners," he said, "I have no trust in them. Would that we had here that holy man from the mountains beyond the Teïssa! Then should we have some certainty in regard to the result of to-morrow's battle. Dost thou know, my son, what are the means which the Christian augurs use to learn the future as they do? Valamir, my friend," he continued, turning to the King of the Ostrogoths, "seest thou yon mound, the only one which interrupts the eye as it wanders towards the east. Though that mound be scarcely bigger than a great ant-hill, much may depend upon it--even the fate of the battle," he added, in a low voice. "We will range our host along this brook, at the distance of two hundred cubits; the hill will be before us, but let it be seized ere the strife commences. Say, Theodore, knowest thou how the Christian augurs are accustomed to divine?"

"The Christians have no augurs, oh Attila!" replied Theodore. "There have been, and there are, prophets among them to whom is revealed by God himself some of the events that are to come."

"That is but a pretence," answered Attila. "We judge by the bones of the victims, other nations by their entrails. Some divine by the sand, some by the lightning, some by the flight of birds; but all who have any knowledge of the future gain it from some manifest sign. So must it be with the Christian augurs; but they conceal their knowledge, lest others should learn it and be as wise as they are. Ardaric, my friend and wise counsellor, place thyself early upon the right. Thou wilt never fly nor bend, I know, but let us all be calm in the hour of battle. Let not rage and rashness make us forget that victories are as often won by calm and temperate skill as by impetuous daring. Lo! yonder come the Romans! I would fain that they should not live another night on the same earth with Attila; but it is too late to destroy them to-day. I will not look upon them, lest I be tempted overmuch. What say the diviners?" he continued, turning to an attendant who came running up from a spot where a large fire had been hastily lighted.

"I know not, mighty king!" replied the slave; "but the sacrifice is over, and they come to seek thee."

Attila paused, and waited, while a crowd of Huns and slaves, all eager to hear the announcement, came forward, accompanying the diviners. They, unlike the Roman augurs of a former time, were dressed in no graceful robes; but, covered simply with the rude garments of the Scythians, they were only distinguished from the rest of the Huns by a wilder and fiercer appearance. As they came near, however, Attila dismounted from his horse; and the diviners approaching with less reverence than the rest of his people displayed towards him, the elder of the party addressed him boldly.

"Hear, oh Attila!" he said--"hear what the gods pronounce by the bones of the victims! Of the result of the battle we know nothing, and therefore we cannot promise you the victory; but we know that the leader of your enemies shall die in the strife. To-morrow's sun shall rise upon him living, and set upon him dead. We have spoken what we know."

"Ætius shall die, then!" said Attila. "So let it be! But can ye say nothing farther! Can ye not tell which will be successful in to-morrow's strife!"

"We had no answer," replied the diviner, with a gloomy look; "the gods left it doubtful."

"They left it to our own valour, then!" cried Attila, in a voice of triumphant confidence. "Our hearts and our arms shall make it no longer doubtful. Lo! yon Romans still advance over the plain. They must not come too near us. Ardaric, let thy Gepidæ recross the stream, and ensure that the enemy do not approach within a hundred bowshots. Theodore, wouldst thou leave me, my son?" he added, seeing the young Roman's eyes turned with a look of natural interest upon the advancing legions of Ætius--"wouldst thou leave me, my son? If so, Attila gives thee leave to go. I fear not that there should be one brave man added to yon mighty host of cowards. I have saved thy life, I have loved thee well, I have treated thee as my child; but if thou wouldst leave Attila at such a moment as this, thou shalt go in peace."

Theodore sprang to the ground and kissed the hand of the monarch. "I will not leave thee, oh Attila!" he said--"I seek not to leave thee, and of all times I would not leave thee now. Fight against my native land I cannot; but through to-morrow's field I will ride unarmed by the side of Attila, and defend him, as far as may be, from every danger in the strife. I am grateful, oh mighty king! for all your favours: I love you for all your kindness and all your noble qualities; and doubt me not, I beseech you, for though I fight not on your part, none will be more faithful to you than I will. Oh, doubt me not!"

"I do not doubt you," answered Attila; "but let us to our camp."

Difficult were it to describe, impossible to convey any adequate idea of the scene of tumult, din, and confusion which the camp of the Huns presented during that night. The circle of wagons placed in a double row, and forming in reality a strong fortification, was nearly completed, when Attila led the way thither, and turned his steps towards his own tent. Fastened to strong stakes driven into the ground between the inner wheels, the wagons were immoveable from without, but easily turned or withdrawn from within; and embracing an immense extent of ground, they afforded space for the mighty host which Attila had led into the plains of Gaul.

During that night, and comprised in a space of a few miles, more than a million of human beings, either in the Hunnish or the Roman army, prepared for battle and panted for carnage. No still quiet followed in the train of night: the blows of the hammer and the mallet, the ringing of armour, the voices of guards and commanders, the tramp of thousands passing to and fro, the murmur of innumerable voices, the loud and ringing laugh, the war-song shouted high and strong, the sounding of trumpets and of wild martial music, the neighing of several millions of horses,[^[1]] raised a roar through the whole air, in the midst of which the sounds of an accidental conflict that took place between the troops of Ardaric and those of Theodoric, the Gothic ally of Ætius were scarcely heard; though so fierce was the struggle for the bank of the rivulet, that fifteen thousand men were left dead within a stone's throw of the Hunnish camp.

Thus passed the night; and early on the following morning Attila appeared at the door of his tent, and was soon surrounded by the different leaders of the nations under his command. His countenance was serene and bright; and the attendants who had passed the night in his tent declared that he had slept as calmly as an infant, from the moment that he lay down his head to rest to the moment that he woke to battle. Calmly and tranquilly he asked the tidings of the night; and, in a brief conversation with the leaders, assigned to every one his proper post, and pointed out the great objects to be striven for in the coming conflict. Towards the third hour after daybreak, one of the watchers before the camp of the Huns announced that they saw movements in the Roman camp; and Attila, instantly springing on his horse, led forth his troops himself through the single aperture which had been left for that purpose. Two hours more elapsed ere the whole of that mighty host were in array; but then to any eye looking along over the wide plain, strange and fearful must have been the sight, yet grand and magnificent.

On one side of that little brook, running pure and clear between those hostile armies--like the bright stream of divine love, pouring on its refreshing waters of peace amid the strife and turbulence of human passions--stretched forth the host of Attila, nearly seven hundred thousand horsemen from every land and every nation of the North. There, in the centre, under his own immediate command, appeared the dark line of dusky Huns, little embarrassed with defensive armour, but bearing the strong and pliant bow upon their shoulders, and at their side the quiver, loaded with unerring arrows; the large heavy sword, too, was in the hand of each, and at many a stirrup of the wilder tribes hung, as an ornament, a gory human head. Far on the right appeared the Gepidæ, fairer in complexion, more bulky in limb, and more splendid in arms and apparel, but generally reputed less active, less fierce, and less persevering than the Huns. On the left, again, were seen the Ostrogoths, tall, fair, and powerful; and the intervening spaces were filled up with a thousand barbarous tribes--the Rugi, the Geloni, the Heruli, the Scyrri, Burgundians, Turingians, and those called the Bellonoti. A thousand tongues were spoken in that host, a thousand varieties of face and garb were seen, but all were actuated by the same feelings--hatred to the Romans, and reverence for the mighty Hun.

On the other side of the brook, again, appeared, not less in number, and not less various in appearance, the vast army which Ætius had collected from the different nations that inhabited Gaul; the long-haired Frank, the blue-eyed Goth, the sturdy Armorican, the powerful but doubtful Alan; and there, upon his right, appeared Theodoric, the wise and valiant monarch of the Visigoths, with his white hair, speaking the passing of many a careful year, and his three gallant sons, ready to obey, with the activity of youth, those directions which the wisdom of his age might dictate. In the centre were placed all the more doubtful allies of the Roman empire, mingled with such as might act as a check upon their wavering faith. On the left of the line appeared the Roman eagles, under the command of Ætius in person. There, too, might he be seen, in the eyes of the whole army, riding from rank to rank, and with bold and cheerful words encouraging his soldiers, and exciting them to great exertion. Small in person, but graceful, well proportioned, and active, with the lion heart of the hero and the eagle glance of the great general, the whole aspect of Ætius breathed courage and inspired energy. Wherever he rode, wherever he appeared, a cheerful murmur greeted him; and when at length he galloped his splendid battle-horse along the line, and, riding up to Theodoric, embraced the old chieftain without dismounting from his charger, a loud and universal shout burst from the army, and seemed to the ears of the Romans a presage of victory.

Calm, grave, and immoveable sat Attila upon his black charger, a stone's throw before the line of the Huns. On him every eye in his own host was turned; and in that moment of awful suspense which precedes the closing of two mighty powers in the first shock of battle, the barbarian myriads seemed to forget the presence of their Roman adversaries in the intense interest with which they regarded their terrible leader. Armed, like themselves, with a bow upon his shoulder and a sword in his hand, Attila sat and gazed upon his forces, turning from time to time a casual glance upon the Romans, and then looking back along the far extending line of Huns, while a scarcely perceptible smile of triumphant anticipation hung upon his lip.

He sat almost alone, for his nearest followers and most faithful friends remained a few paces behind; while, with that stern, proud glance, he ran over his often victorious bands, and seemed waiting with tranquil confidence for the approaching strife. At length, all seemed prepared on every side, and the stillness of expectation fell upon the field. It continued till it seemed as if all were afraid to break it, so deep, so profound grew that boding silence.

Slowly turning his horse, Attila rode back towards the centre of the Hunnish cavalry, and then, with a voice so clear, so distinct, so powerful, that its deep rolling tones are said to have reached even the Roman lines, he exclaimed, "Unconquerable race, behold your enemies! I strive not to give you confidence in me or in yourselves. Here is no new leader, no inexperienced army. Well do you know how light and empty are the arms of the Romans. They fly not with the first wound, but with the first dust of the battle! Fearing to meet you unsupported, and remembering that where Romans have encountered Huns the Romans have fallen like corn before the reaper, they have called to their aid degenerate tribes, who have taken shelter in the vicious provinces of Rome, after having been expelled from among the native Goths, from the Gepidæ, the Heruli, the Alani. These, whom we have driven from among us--these, weak, corrupted, degraded as they are--form the bulk, supply the strength, afford the courage of the army before you. Behold them as they stand! are they not as one of their own fields of corn, which we have a thousand times trodden down beneath our horses' feet? We are no weak husbandmen, that we should fail to reap such a harvest as that. On, warriors, on! Pour on upon the Alani! Break through the degenerate Goths! At the sound of our horses' feet, the Roman eagles, as is their custom, will take wing and fly; and yon dark multitude shall disappear like the mist of the morning! Why should fortune have given unto the Huns innumerable victories, if not to crown them all with this successful day? On, warriors, on! Drink the blood of your enemies! Let the wounded, in dying, strike his javelin through his foe, and no one dare to die ere he have brought a Roman head to the ground. I tread before you the way to victory; and if any one follow not Attila, he is already dead!"

A loud acclamation burst from the nearer ranks, and ran along all the line of the Huns, while even those who had not heard poured forth their own clamorous applause of the words which they fancied had been spoken; and the clang of arms dashed violently together, mingled with the deafening shout that rose up from the barbarian host.

"Seize on yon hill, Valamir!" cried Attila, while the roar continued: "it should have been done before."

The monarch of the Ostrogoths hastened to obey; but scarcely had his troops been put in motion, when a corresponding movement was seen upon the part of the Romans; and the terrible strife of that day--the most fierce, the most sanguinary that Europe ever has seen--was commenced by the struggle for that low hill, between the two rival tribes of Goths.

For a time the rest of both armies remained unmoved, as if spectators of the combat; but rage and emulation increased in their bosoms every moment as they gazed, and at length it became impossible for the leaders on either part to restrain in their troops the burning thirst for battle. On poured the Huns upon the Romans: on rushed the Romans on the Huns. The whirling masses of the Scythian horsemen, enveloped in a cloud of dust, from which shot forth a hail of arrows, passed through and through the ranks of the enemy, casting themselves in vain upon the firm legions of Ætius, scattering the Franks and the Sicambres, sweeping down whole ranks of the Alani and the Goths. On, in heavy line, with their long spears lowered, poured the multitude of the Gepidæ, bearing slaughter and confusion wherever they came.

But still Theodoric and his Goths maintained the hill; still Ætius and his legions fought unconquered on the plain; still the Franks and the Alani, knowing that valour could alone save them, continued the combat against the Huns. Hour after hour passed by; rank after rank was mowed down; the rivulet, late so pure and clear, flowed onward one unmingled stream of blood; and the feet of the Hunnish horses, as they charged again and again the confused but unsubdued masses of the Romans, splashed up a gory dew from the pools that lay unabsorbed upon the loamy soil. So great, so terrible was the slaughter, that the horses could scarcely keep their feet among the bodies of the dead and dying. Each waving sword dismissed some erring spirit to its last account; each footfall trampled on the writhing limbs of some mangled fellow-creature.

In the foremost ranks of battle, wherever danger was pre-eminent, wherever the foes remained unbroken, wherever the carnage was most intense, there was seen Attila; and wherever he appeared, there for the time was victory obtained. Through the whole of that day, too, Theodore was by his side; and for the second time he saw upon him what his followers not unaptly called "the spirit of the battle." Though prompt and clear in every command, keen and ready to seize every advantage, the calm and moderate sternness of his demeanour was gone; and, fierce as the lion of the wilderness, rapid as the leven bolt of heaven, remorseless and unsparing as the hurricane, he swept on. No one stood before him for an instant; no one was struck a second time; but, wherever an adversary crossed his path, there was left, at a single blow, a disfigured corpse upon the ground, or else his horse's feet trampled out the faint sparks that his sword had left.

Death seemed to march before him against his enemies, nor ever turned to approach himself; and only twice, when surrounded almost on every side by the foe, could Theodore interpose to parry with an iron truncheon, which was the only weapon that he bore throughout the day, the blows of a spear and a javelin, which were aimed at the monarch's throat. The young Roman knew not that he had seen the service rendered; but at length, when the day was far spent, Ellac, his eldest son, crossed the path of the monarch, saying, "Ride not in the battle with the Roman, oh my father! He is of the country of our enemies, and may kill thee when thy back is turned. Let me slay him even now, lest the traitor destroy thee!"

"He has saved my life twice this day!" cried Attila, urging forward his horse. "Out of my way!" he continued, seeing that his son still stood before him. "Out of my way! or, by the god of battles, I will send thee to the land of spirits! Out of my way!" and he raised his sword over his son's head as if about to cleave him to the jaws.

Ellac saw that the moment was not his; and, reining back his horse, he sought another part of the field, while Attila pursued his career, and strove, but strove long in vain, to obtain possession of the hill. At length, as the closing day waxed faint and dim, and the gray shade of evening falling over the whole bloody scene, announced that the battle must soon close or be prolonged into the night, Attila for a moment gained the summit of that long-contested eminence, and slew with his own hand the last of the Gothic warriors, whose especial charge had been to defend that post. Up to that instant he had rushed on like a devouring flame, leaving nothing but ashes behind him; but there he suddenly paused, gazed forth upon the confused and mingled masses of the Huns and Romans, that, with equal success, and very nearly equal numbers, were seen spread over the plain for many miles around. He then lifted his eyes towards the sky, marked the dim gray that mingled with the blue, and the bright star of evening betokening that the brighter sun was gone; and with a sudden calmness said, in a low, tranquil voice, "It is too late for victory to-night! It is too late! Let the trumpets be sounded!" he continued, to some of those who followed--"let the trumpets be sounded, to recall all men to the camp! Gather together the ten nearest squadrons upon this slope! The Romans, I think, have had enough of strife to-day, and will not seek it further; but they have fought well for once, and Attila must defend his own, while they seek a place of repose for the night."

He added some further orders; and in a few minutes was heard, from the Hunnish camp, the sound of trumpets, giving forth the peculiar notes of recall with which the Huns and other barbarous nations were acquainted; and, separating themselves gradually but securely from the masses of the Romans, the various tribes which had followed Attila to that bloody battle were seen moving, in firm and regular order, towards their camp.

What would have been the result of this movement under other circumstances, it is difficult to say, had the eye of Ætius marked the proceedings of the Huns, or the mind of Theodoric directed the movements of the enemy; but trampled under the horses' feet, not far from the spot where Attila then sat, lay the disfigured body of the Gothic king, and the Roman general was far away, embarrassed with a party of the Gepidæ, by whom he had nearly been taken.

The inferior commanders of the Roman host gladly perceived that a battle, of which they were beginning to despair, was not entirely lost; and seeing the dark cloud of Huns, with which Attila on the hill covered the man[oe]uvres of his troops, they dared not act any very vigorous part, with thinned and exhausted troops, against so bold and well-prepared an enemy. The trumpets of Attila continued to sound for two hours after nightfall: his forces entered the camp unmolested, and the last of the host who left the battle-plain was the monarch of the Huns himself.[^[2]]

[CHAPTER VII.]

THE RETREAT.

"Let the dead be numbered!" said Attila, as he entered his tent--"let the dead be numbered! I have lost many of my children! Let every chieftain of every tribe count up their numbers, and tell me how many are wanting. We are brave men, and can look our loss in the face. Theodore, my son, I thank thee; and I give thee leave, as a Roman, to rejoice that, for the first time, Attila has fought without winning a victory."

Thus saying, he passed on, and Theodore turned to where his own tents were placed. It had been a day of terrible excitement; and no man, probably, in either army, had felt such strange and contending emotions as the young Roman, who, riding by the side of Attila through that terrible conflict, exerted every energy to defend the monarch's life, and yet from his heart wished success unto his enemies. Though every moment his own person had been in danger--the more, perhaps, because he sought to take the life of none himself--yet, during the day, he had not felt even that slight exciting shade of apprehension which is rather pleasing than otherwise. His whole thoughts had been divided between Attila and the Romans. He had sought most eagerly, and he had found completely, an opportunity of proving his gratitude to the monarch of the Huns for all the great and singular favour which he had displayed towards him.

That gratitude had indeed been great. It is true, he had discovered that Attila had a personal object in the first signs of forbearance which he had shown towards him; but Theodore was not one to scan narrowly the causes of gratitude, or to weigh it out in very fine and accurate scales; and yet, though he would willingly have given his life to save that of the mighty king who had protected and befriended him, he could not find in his heart to wish his fellow-countrymen defeated. Thus he had watched the wavering progress of the fight with an anxious and a beating heart, longing every moment to spring forward and rally the legions when he saw them shaken, or to form again the cohorts broken by the Hunnish cavalry.

The same feelings continued, and agitated him still after he had re-entered the camp. Throughout the night a low and moaning murmur went up from the plain between the two armies; and when Theodore, raised upon one of the wagons, gazed over that bloody field, as it lay in the tranquil moonlight, he could see among the piles of dead, which now broke the flat line of the land, a number of objects moving slowly, and darkening, here and there, those spots where the beams of the calm, bright planet were reflected from heaps of corslets and shining arms. The whole camp around him, except a few solitary warriors keeping guard, seemed now to have fallen sound asleep, wearied out with exertion, and none of the noises of the preceding night broke the stillness of the air. Horses and men, equally tired, uttered no sound; and that low moan, not unlike the sighing of a melancholy wind, was all that interrupted the silence. As Theodore gazed, a step near him made him turn; and the next moment, mounting upon the same part of the rampart on which he had raised himself, Ardaric stood by his side, and gazed out in the same direction for some time without speaking.

"What can that faint moan proceed from?" said Theodore, at length. "You hear it, do you not, noble Ardaric? The stream is too small to be heard here!"

"I hear it well," answered Ardaric. "It is the groaning of the many wounded, I suppose, though I never listened to such a sound before."

"Nor ever, probably," said Theodore, "saw such a field?"

"The world never has seen such till this day!" replied the King of the Gepidæ. "The number of the dead is fearful. I alone have lost seventy thousand men: so say the leaders of the tribes. Did you not think the enemy seemed to have suffered as much as we had at the close of the day?"

"Fully!" answered Theodore. "But is it possible that the sound we hear can proceed from the wounded and dying? It is horrible to think upon!"

"It may be the spirits of the unburied dead mourning over their fate," replied Ardaric. "But what are yon moving objects? They must be either the Romans come to seek for their friends, or the wounded crawling about among the slain. Hark, that cawing! and see, they fly up for a moment into the air! It is the ravens already at their repast. The carrion-eaters in all lands, the vulture, the worm, and the crow, have cause to be grateful to Attila. On yonder field, I should guess, must lie, either dead or wounded, some half million of men. What a banquet! See, they settle again! and now some wise crow, perched upon a Roman corslet, shall peck, unreproved, the throat of one of those who used to call themselves the masters of the world."

"Cannot we go forth and aid the wounded?" demanded Theodore. "It is dreadful to think of leaving them to die."

"Why so?" demanded Ardaric. "They will be at rest all the sooner. Those who had any strength left have crept into the camp long ago; those who had none are as well where they are, for neither can they serve us nor we them. It is only a pity that those ravens are not vultures, such as we have in the East: they speedily make the dead and dying, one. But, doubtless, there are wolves here too, out of the great forest behind us. They will soon clear away the carrion. I should not wonder if that moaning, which I took for the groans of the wounded, were the well-pleased murmur of the wolves over their unexpected feast."

"Nevertheless," said Theodore, "I should much like to take a small body of men with me, and pick out those we can aid among the wounded."

"What! and have the Romans or the Visigoths upon you, declaring that you were pillaging the dead!" replied Ardaric; "and then I should be obliged to go out to defend you. More Goths, more Huns would come up, and a night-battle would finish what a day-battle has so well begun. No, no, my young friend; by my counsel and good-will, not a man shall stir forth from this camp either to-night, or to-morrow, or the day after, so long as yon army lies before us. Our loss is nearly equal now. We are in an enemy's country, where we cannot hope to increase our numbers by a man: they are at home, and probably, ere to-morrow, may receive re-enforcements. Could we have crushed them in the battle of yesterday, the whole country would have been ours at once; but, as we failed to do that, we must no longer leave them the advantages they possess. Here, in our camp, we must await them, where our defences are as much as half a million more warriors. They cannot starve us, for we have food enough for months, what with our horses and our cattle; and if they attack us boldly, they must be utterly defeated. No, no, Theodore, my friend, no one must leave the camp. Attila, I know, will seek to go forth and destroy them in the open plain; but all voices will be with me if he asks counsel of any one; and, having asked it, he will take it if we all agree. Now let us to our tents, my friend. After all, these tents are convenient things, though when we first entered the Roman territory as enemies we had none, and despised them as idle luxuries, unworthy of a warrior. Now, not a leader among us but has many."

"So would it be, Ardaric, with every other Roman luxury," replied Theodore. "What you contemn now, you will learn to tolerate, and at length to like."

"The gods forbid!" answered Ardaric. "Then will we cut our beards, and call ourselves women."

"The Romans have not fought like women this day, my friend," replied Theodore.

"True! true!" replied the other. "A fair reproof, Theodore! They have fought well, and I did them injustice. Now, good-night, and sleep you well. I was heated, and, to say the truth, somewhat anxious; and I came forth for the cool air, and for something else to think of than to-morrow. I have found both, and have also made up my mind, even while gazing upon that plain. Sleep you well!"

Sleep, however, was not known to the eyes of Theodore during that night. He was not yet sufficiently habituated to the mighty trade of war to see thousands perish, and know that thousands more were lying around in agony, with a calm and unconcerned bosom. He lay down to rest his limbs, but sleep visited not his eyelids. Shortly after dawn, he rose and went out before his tent; but the host of the Huns was already up and stirring, and multitudes covered the tops of all the wagons, gazing out over the plain and towards the Roman encampment. Attila was still within his tent, though his battle-horse stood caparisoned by the side of the standard which was planted at the entrance. But Theodore was told that six or seven of the chief leaders were in council within the tent; and, joining himself to a party of Hunnish chiefs who stood in the open space hard by, he remained waiting, with no slight anxiety, the result of the conference.

At length the curtain of the tent was raised, and Attila, followed by his chief leaders, came forth. But little alteration was visible in his countenance, and yet that alteration had rendered the expression more harsh and severe. He was speaking when he came out, and the deep tones of his powerful voice reached to where Theodore stood.

"If it must be so," he said, "why, let it be so. Nor do I say that your counsel is not wise and prudent, though I feel within me the power to crush yon swarm of insects as I would emmets beneath my feet. Still I would spare the people, if it may be so. But let it be remembered that Attila must never be defeated! It is sufficient not to have been victorious; we must die here or conquer! Let my Huns, with their unerring bows, mount upon the ramparts of the camp. Let the other nations, my friends and allies, stand by to support them; then raise me up a funeral pile before the entrance of this tent. There shall be the bed of Attila, if fortune and the god of battle should desert him! To the ramparts, my friends, to the ramparts! Let no man say that Attila does not yield to wise counsels, even when they are opposed to the most burning desire of his heart."

With extraordinary celerity and perfect order, the Huns immediately spread themselves over the long line of chariots which formed the rampart of their camp; and, intermingled with the Gepidæ, and with the spearmen of Valamir, stood prepared, with their bows in their hands, and the arrow resting on the string, to send the winged death among the Roman legions as soon as they should advance to the attack.

Several times during the course of the day bodies of the Roman and Gothic troops were seen whirling about over the plain, and twice a large division advanced very near the Hunnish camp, as if to feel their way towards a general attack. But a hail of arrows, darkening the sky, and carrying death and confusion into their ranks, caused them to retreat even faster than they came; and day closed without the expected attack.

Early the next morning a rumour became prevalent in the Hunnish camp that the army was dispersing; and, on examining more accurately, it was found that an immense body of Goths, and another of Franks, had left the camp of Ætius before daylight that very morning. Infinite were now the conjectures throughout the barbarian host as to what would be the conduct of Attila under the present circumstances. It was not soon decided, however. Scouts returning to the camp after having been sent forth to ascertain the movements of the enemy, and reporting that the Goths and the Franks had halted at the distance of a few leagues after leaving the Roman army, the ramparts of the Huns remained guarded during the whole of that day; and no one was suffered to leave the camp, except some small parties sent forth to reconnoitre.

Attila only once left his tent during the whole day, when the unexpected appearance of a large body of cavalry, supposed to be Goths, on the eastern side of the plain, led to the belief that a general attack was about to take place upon the camp of the Huns. They passed away, however, without approaching; and Attila, returning to his tent, remained in solitude during the rest of the day.

By dawn of the next morning the Romans themselves removed to a greater distance, and towards noon an order was given for the Hunnish army to prepare to march. None knew the direction that they were about to take, none knew what purpose was in the bosom of the king; and when he himself rode forth among the troops, not even Ardaric, his most familiar friend, was aware of the course they were about to pursue.

A few words announced the intentions of the monarch. "To the south," he said; "I will not be further bearded by these Romans, though they be leagued with all the runaways from the hardy North. On to the south, I say! Let them attack me, if they dare!"

The tone in which he spoke was such as showed no inclination to receive counsel or follow advice, and his orders were instantly obeyed. No obstruction was offered to his march: the Roman army, as a whole, had disappeared; and though from time to time a few small bodies of cavalry was seen upon the right of the Huns, showing that Ætius either followed or accompanied the march of the invaders, yet no attempt was made to bring on a general battle; and when, at the end of a four days' march, the Roman cohorts approached somewhat too near, they were speedily driven back by the Hunnish cavalry.

On the fifth day, towards noon, the towers of a large and important city appeared, crowning the summit of some high hills, round the basis of which the barbarian army had been winding since the morning. Massy walls, close and elevated flanking towers, built from the bowels of the rock on which they stood, announced a well defended fortress, which, in the time of Rome's greatest glory, might well have been looked upon as impregnable. Nevertheless, no sooner did the eyes of Attila rest upon it, after gazing over the country round, as if to ascertain its capabilities for military man[oe]uvres, than, stretching forth his hand towards Langres, he exclaimed, "It must fall! Valamir, my friend, lead the troops to the attack. I, with one fourth part of the army, wait upon this gentle slope for the coming of the Roman, if he dare to show himself. Let not the sun set, and see this city in the hands of the enemy."

Langres fell, and Ætius struck no stroke to relieve it. Some of its inhabitants found means to escape into the recesses of the mountains, and some even hid themselves in various parts of the town, where they were not discovered, but all the rest perished by the sword; and the streets of Langres flowed with human blood. As was very customary with the Huns, it was fired in several places ere they left it as night fell; but the solidity of the buildings, and the incombustible nature of the materials, saved it from anything but partial destruction, and Attila passed on without waiting to see that it was utterly consumed.

Besançon shared the same fate as Langres; and on the morning after its destruction, Attila gazed from the heights in the neighbourhood, and exclaimed with a glance of triumph, as he beheld no force on any side either to watch his progress or oppose his will, "We are not defeated! Let them write it in their histories, that after a pitched battle, in which five hundred thousand men were slain, Attila rode unrestrained through Gaul, and sacked two of her finest cities before the eyes of Ætius. But they will not write the truth--they will not, they dare not, lest in after ages every boy should spit at their memory. Now we may safely turn our steps towards our native land, lest the winter again set in, as it did when we were coming hither, and bind us with icy chains amid the fastnesses of the mountains."

The direction taken by the army was now towards the east; and leaving Gaul, Attila plunged into the passes of the Jura, pausing from time to time amid the sweet Helvetian valleys, as if he even hoped that the Romans might follow him thither, and once more try the fortune of battle. He who through his life had gone from victory to victory, whose steps had been upon the necks of conquered nations, and whose daily food had been success, had met with a check, had encountered disappointment, had been unsuccessful, if not defeated; and he seemed to thirst for an opportunity of wiping away the only stain, slight as it was, which a thousand battles had left upon his sword. None of his confidence had abandoned him; his reliance on his own mighty genius and daring courage was unshaken; but yet the check received in that undecided battle had wrought a change in Attila, and that change unfavourable. Ever stern and unyielding, he had now become fierce and irascible; nor was that all: many of the vices of the barbarian character, which had been kept down, and, as it were, overawed in his nature by the greater and more splendid qualities, so long as success had attended him, now seemed, like slaves on the first reverse of their master, to rise up turbulently in his bosom, and threaten to usurp the supreme control.

It was remarked, also, that Attila--fearing, perhaps, that his first want of success might have deprived him of some portion of his vast influence over the minds and hearts of his followers--had become suspicious, wily, exacting in regard to outward reverence, occasionally violent, and often intemperate. He assumed, too, a greater degree of pomp and external magnificence; as if the simple splendour of his powerful mind was sufficiently tarnished by the one slight reverse he had met with, to require the substitution of a meaner sort of majesty, to dazzle the eyes where the heart was unsatisfied.

The change, indeed, was not very great in any one particular, but still enough so in each to attract the attention of a person who remarked so closely as Theodore, and, in the aggregate, sufficient to strike the eyes of others. This mood, too, increased in him daily; and, as he marched onward, it drew the attention of Ardaric himself.

Through those wide beautiful valleys, clad in the everlasting green with which a temperate climate and a happy soil has robed them, the Hunnish cavalry wound on, feeding their horses by the banks of the streams and lakes, which, scattered in bright confusion throughout the free Helvetian land, have rendered it, in all ages, a country of enchanted sights. Through those deep passes, too, clad with the fir and pine, whose evergreen garmenture bore no token of the approaching autumn, the long and dusky troops of barbarian horsemen poured on, lifting, with wild enthusiastic delight, to the mountain, the rock, the rugged precipice, the variegated foliage, and all the beauties of uncultivated nature, those eyes which looked with scorn or abhorrence upon all the productions of civilized art, and on the mighty master works of the human mind.