Volume Iii Part 60 (2/2)

And so Na.r.s.es had immediately sent heralds to Harald and to the pa.s.s.

The battle ceased; the retreat of the Goths began.

In double ranks, reaching from the summit of the mountain down to the sea, the army of heroes formed a lane. The Viking had landed four hundred men, who received the Goths on the sea-sh.o.r.e. But before the march began, Ka.r.s.es signed to Basiliskos and said:

”The Gothic war is over--the stag is killed--now away with the wolves which hunted him to the death. How are the wounded leaders of the Longobardians?”

”Before I answer,” said Basiliskos respectfully, ”accept this laurel-wreath, which your army sends to you. It is laurel from Vesuvius; from the pa.s.s above; there is heroes' blood upon the leaves.”

The first impulse of Na.r.s.es was to push the wreath aside; but after a pause, he said:

”'Tis well; give it to me.” But he laid it beside him in the litter.

”Autharis, Warnfrid, Grimoald, Aripert, Agilulf and Rotharis are dead,”

Basiliskos now reported. ”Altogether the Longobardians have lost seven thousand men; Alboin and Gisulf, severely wounded, lie motionless in their tents.”

”Good, very good! As soon as the Goths have embarked, let the Longobardians be led away. They are dismissed my service. And say to Alboin, as my parting words: 'After the death of Na.r.s.es--_perhaps_; but certainly not before.' I will remain here in my litter; support me with the cus.h.i.+ons--I cannot stand--but I must witness this wonderful spectacle.”

And in truth it was a grand and moving sight to behold the last of the Goths, as they turned their backs upon Vesuvius and Italy, and embarked in the high-prowed s.h.i.+ps which were to bear them away to the safe and sheltering north.

From the ravine, into which not a single enemy had succeeded in penetrating, was heard at intervals the solemn tones of the Gothic war-horns, accompanied by monotonous, grave, and touching strains from the men, women, and children--the ancient death-song of the Gothic nation.

Hildebrand and Adalgoth--the last chiefs, the h.o.a.ry Past and the golden Future--had arranged the order of march.

Foremost went, full-armed, five hundred men, led by Wisand, the standard-bearer, who, in spite of his wounds, bravely opened the procession, leaning on his spear. Then followed, stretched upon his last s.h.i.+eld, the spear of Cethegus still sticking in his breast, without helmet, his n.o.ble and pallid face framed by his long black locks--King Teja, covered with a purple mantle, and carried by four warriors. Behind him came Adalgoth and Gotho, and Adalgoth, softly striking his harp, sang in a low voice:

”Give place, ye peoples, to our march: The doom of the Goths is sped!

No crown, no sceptre carry we, We bear the n.o.ble dead.

”With s.h.i.+eld to s.h.i.+eld, and spear to spear, We march to the Northland cool; Until in grey and distant seas We find the Island Thule.

”That is the Isle of the brave and true, Where none dishonour fears; There we will lay our bravest King In his bed of oaken spears.

”From off our feet--give place! give place!-- We shake Rome's traitor dust; We only bear our King away-- For the Gothic crown is lost!”

When the bier was carried past the litter, Na.r.s.es called a halt, and said in a low voice in the Latin language:

”Mine was the victory, but his the fame! There, take the laurel wreath!

Other generations may see greater things, but now. King Teja, I greet you as the greatest hero of all ages!”

And he laid the laurel wreath upon the dead man's pallid brow. The bearers again took up the bier, and slowly and solemnly, to the sad sound of Adalgoth's silver harp, the death-song of the people, and the long-drawn tones of the war-horns, the procession marched on towards the sea, which now glowed magnificently in the evening red.

Close behind Teja's body was carried a lofty crimson throne. Upon it rested the silent august form of Dietrich of Bern; upon the head the crowned helm; on the left arm the tall s.h.i.+eld; a spear leaning against the right shoulder. On the left of the throne marched old Hildebrand, his eyes fixed upon the face of his beloved master, which shone in the magic light of the setting sun. He held aloft the banner with the device of the lion, high above the head of the great Dead. The evening breeze from the Ausonian Sea rustled in the folds of the immense flag, which, in ghost-like speech, seemed to be taking leave of Italian soil.

As the corpse was carried past, Na.r.s.es said:

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