Part 40 (1/2)

”Woe to thee! I mourn, I mourn!

Woe to thee, O Vandal race!

Soon forgot, will be thy name, Which the world, a tempest, swept.

”Gloriously didst thou arise From the sea,--a meteor.

Fame and radiance lost for aye, Thou wilt sink in blackest night.

”All the earth's rich treasures heaped Genseric in Carthage fair.

Starving beggar with the foe, Now for bread his grandson pleads.

”Let thy heroes strengthen me; G.o.d's wrath on thee resteth sore; Leave fame and honor to the Goths, To the Franks:--they are but toys.”

”I will not listen; I will not bear it,” cried Hilda. ”He shall not revile all that makes life worth living.”

Nearer, more distinctly, sounded the slow, mournful notes.

”Vanity and sin are all Thou hast cherished, Vandal race; Therefore G.o.d hath stricken thee, Therefore bowed thy head in shame.

”Bow thee, bow thee to the dust, Bruised race of Genseric; Kiss the rod in grat.i.tude.

It is G.o.d the Lord Who smites.”

The dirge died away. The royal singer ascended with tottering steps the half-ruined stairs of the basilica, his harp hanging loosely from his left arm. Now he stood between the gray, mouldering pillars of the entrance, and, laying his right arm against the cold stone, pressed his weary head upon it.

Just at that moment a young Moor came hurrying up the steps; a few bounds brought him to the top. Gibamund and Hilda went toward him in astonishment.

”It is long since I have seen you move so swiftly, Sersaon,” said Gibamund.

”Your eyes are sparkling,” cried Hilda. ”You bring good tidings.”

The King raised his head from the pillar and, shaking it sorrowfully, looked at the Moor.

”Yes, wise Queen,” replied the latter. ”The best of tidings: Rescue!”

”Impossible!” said Gelimer, in a hollow tone.

”It is true, my master. Here, Verus will confirm it.”

With a slow step, but unbroken strength, the priest ascended the mountain-top. He seemed rather to be prouder, more powerful than in the days of happiness; he held his head haughtily erect. In his hand he carried an arrow and a strip of papyrus.

”To-night,” the young Moor went on, ”I had the watch at our farthest point toward the south. At the earliest glimmer of dawn, I heard the call of the ostrich: I thought it a delusion, for the bird never ascends to such a height, and this is not the mating season. But this call is our concerted signal with our allies among the Southern tribes, the Soloes. I listened, I watched keenly; yes, yonder, pressing close against the yellowish-brown cliff, so motionless that he could scarcely be distinguished from the rock, crouched a Soloe. I softly answered the call; instantly an arrow flew to the earth close beside me,--a headless arrow, into whose hollow shaft, instead of the tip, this strip had been forced. I drew it out; I cannot read, but I took it to the nearest Vandals. Two of them read it and rejoiced greatly. Verus happened to pa.s.s by; he wanted to tear the papyrus, wished to forbid our speaking of it to you, but hunger, the hope of rescue, are stronger than his words--”

”I thought it treachery, a snare; it is too improbable,” interrupted Verus.

Gibamund s.n.a.t.c.hed the strip and read: ”The path descending southward, where the ostrich called, is unguarded; it is supposed to be impa.s.sable. Climb down singly to-morrow at midnight; we will wait close by with fresh horses. Theudis, King of the Visigoths, has sent us gold to save you, and a little s.h.i.+p. It is lying near the coast. Hasten.”

”There is still fidelity. There are still friends in need!” cried Hilda, exultingly, throwing herself with tears of joy, on her husband's breast.