THE COUNTRY OF THE HUNS.
Theodore was left alone once more, and weariness was more than ever
upon him; but yet the busy, untiring course of thought went on for
long after he had again lain down to rest. Thought's insidious enemy,
sleep, at length crept upon him; but, ere calm forgetfulness had
complete dominion, Cremera once more stole into the tent, and again
lay down at his feet. The lamp, however, had been lighted by the
followers of the monarch; and Theodore, recognising the form of his
faithful attendant, merely spoke a few words of thanks and greeting,
and let his heavy eyelids fall.
Broad daylight was shining through the chinks of the tent when he
awoke; and Cremera was sitting in the outer chamber, polishing with a
knife a strong ashen staff, to which he had fitted the iron head of a
spear. Theodore saw that the day must be far advanced, and rising, he
offered prayers and thanks to God; and then, while speaking many
kindly words to the freedman, he advanced and pushed back the loose
hangings that closed the interior of the tent from the view of the
outer world.
How changed was the scene which met his eye from that which he had
passed through on the preceding night! The Huns were gone; scarcely a
vestige of them remained; not a wagon, not a group was to be seen over
all that wide plain, except where, before the door of the tent, ten or
twelve of the Huns, and an equal number of the Alani, taller,
stronger, and fairer to look upon than their dark companions, employed
the vacant hours in packing a number of small and strangely-assorted
articles into two of the low wagons which had formed part of the
night's circle round the tent. The sun was not very far from its
meridian, and Theodore saw that he must have slept long and
profoundly, but yet he was not refreshed. There was a weariness, a
heaviness upon his limbs that he had never felt before--a burning heat
upon his skin, that the cooler climate in which he now was placed
could not have produced.
Nevertheless, he gladly prepared to depart, and bade the attendants
who had been assigned to him make all things ready, while he went to
bathe his feverish body in a small stream that his eye caught
glistening on at a short distance upon its way to join the rushing
waters of the Danube. The cool wave, however, proved no refreshment,
and only caused a chilly shudder to pass over his limbs, succeeded
quickly by the same heat as before. On his return he found food
prepared, but he could not eat; and though his lip loathed the wine
they offered, he drank a deep draught from the horn of a urus, for the
sake of gaining that temporary strength of which he felt himself to
stand in need.
His own horse, fresh as the early morning from a night of repose,
stood near, but the horses of the barbarians were still straying over
the plain. A shrill, long whistle, however, brought them in a moment
to their masters' sides, and small grooming did the rude riders of the
Dacian wilds bestow upon their swift but rugged beasts. The tent was
by this time struck and placed upon the wagons; and Theodore, with one
of the Huns beside him to guide him as he went, led the way onward
towards that strange land which seemed thenceforward destined to be
his home for many a long year. Of his guide he asked various
questions, and was answered fluently in his own language; but at
length Cremera, who followed, pointed towards the towers of a far
distant city, saying, "Is not that Margus?"
"It is," answered the Hun. "We can go thither if thou wilt," he
continued, addressing Theodore. "We can repose there to-morrow night.
It is now a city belonging to Attila the King."
"No, no," replied Theodore, with many a painful feeling at the very
thought finding expression on his countenance--"no, no, not in the
city for a thousand worlds; rather let us lodge in the open field."
"Thou art wise, young chief," replied the Hun. "Cities are hateful
places: Attila loves them not any more than thou dost; and, though
Margus is his, he will not keep it long, but will either sell it back
to the Romans or destroy it."
Theodore replied not; and they rode on till at length, towards
eventide, they came near the banks of the Danube, and, after half an
hour's riding within sight of the river, halted for the night on a
spot near the old Roman way from M[oe]sia into Dacia. Theodore was
fatigued, but yet he could not rest; and while they were engaged in
setting up his tent, he wandered forward to drink of the great river.
It was a sweet, bright, tranquil afternoon. The sun was just dipping
beneath the wood-covered hills upon the opposite bank of the river,
but the air was still full of his light; and the forests and
mountains, the soft green slopes, the blue sky, and the light passing
cloud, were mirrored in the swift waters of the mighty stream, as it
flowed on towards the ocean. The air, too, was calm; and silence hung
above the world, except when the laughing note of the woodpecker, or
the melody of the thrush, broke the silence for a moment, to render it
more calm and sweet. Theodore gazed up the stream, and beheld afar
gigantic masses of masonry, rifted and broken, projecting from either
bank, while here and there, from the broad sealike bosom of the
Danube, rose up massy piers and woodwork, the fragments of some vast
fabric swept away.
It was evidently the famous bridge of Trajan that stood before him,
just as the destroying hand of his envious successor had left it; and
as Theodore gazed upon the remnants of that stupendous work, as they
stood in the clear light and shade of evening, he could not but
meditate upon the change of dynasties, the vanity of human hopes, the
fruitlessness of earthly endeavours, and all the many and melancholy
themes on which poet and philosopher have sung and moralized, hoping,
even while they did so, for that earthly immortality which they knew
and proved to be a bubble. There before his eyes stood one of the
greatest works of one of the greatest men that the human race, in all
its vast succession of beings, in all its complexity of characters, in
all its variety of qualities, has ever produced, from the creation
till to-day; and yet a mean follower, unable to compete with him in
intellect, in feeling, in effort, or in success, had possessed the
power to sweep away from off the earth that majestic monument of a
grand and creative mind, to cast down what the good and wise had
raised up, to destroy what the noble and energetic had created.
"Oh, wonderful frailty of man's most lasting works!" thought the young
Roman; "that nothing can give them certain existence, no, not for a
century. That which the earthquake spares, the hand of war and
violence pulls down; that which hostile armies have respected, the
mean envy of inferior genius will destroy. Alas! when we look around,
and think of the work of but a few short lustres upon man's noblest
efforts and his brightest productions, well, well may we ask, What is
lasting upon earth?"
He paused--"Yes, yes!" he thought again; "virtue is lasting! virtue is
immortal even here! Rarely as it is seen, often as it is
counterfeited, shunning publicity, hating pomp, virtue, indestructible
like gold, even in the fire of time and amid the trial of
circumstances, comes out pure and passes on uninjured, accumulating
slowly, but brightly, in the treasuries of the past, and forming an
inexhaustible store of example and encouragement for all who choose to
take it. Yes, yes, virtue _is_ lasting! One may produce, and another
may destroy; but Trajan shall be remembered when Hadrian is forgotten
or contemned."
Theodore, as the confidence in some great principle of stability
returned to his heart, set his foot more firmly upon the earth, which,
to his imagination, had seemed crumbling beneath him like a pile of
dust and ashes, while he had only remembered how brief, how transitory
is the existence of the noblest fabrics that it bears.
He would fain have gone on to examine more nearly the mighty fragments
of what had once been the celebrated bridge of Trajan; but the ruins
were farther than they seemed: he was weary and languid; and ever and
anon urged by the burning thirst upon him, he paused to drink again of
the waters of the Danube. At length he gave up his purpose and
returned to the tent, where the Huns were broiling, on a wood fire, a
large fish which they had caught in the neighbouring river. At the
very sight of food a sickening disgust came over the young Roman; but
his faithful Cremera pressed him so anxiously to eat, that he forced
himself to swallow a few mouthfuls. But it was in vain: he could not
go on; and soon retiring to his tent, he endeavoured to find repose.
No sounds disturbed his rest, for nothing was to be heard but the
rushing of the Danube and the sighing of the wind through the tall
trees. No human being had been seen through all that morning's
journey; no voice of salutation had welcomed them as they passed,
showing too well how desolate the land had been made; and after the
youth's attendants had laid themselves down to sleep, not a tone but
one solitary scream from some flitting bird of night broke the silence
of the world around: and yet Theodore courted slumber in vain. He
tossed his weary limbs upon the couch of skins which had again become
his bed, and counted the heavy minutes from night till morning.
Frequently, through all the violent heat that burned in his whole
frame, a cold chilly shudder would pass over him, and he felt that the
hand of sickness was upon him.
Nevertheless, he started up with the dawn, bent with feverish
eagerness upon pursuing his journey as quickly as possible, while yet
the last efforts of his remaining strength could be exerted to oppose
the overpowering weight that pressed him down. Looking out from the
tent, he saw the Huns and the Alani already busy in preparing for
departure; and, in a few minutes, one who seemed to have been
despatched to seek for a means of transport came back to say that the
raft had already come down to the shore. Cremera gazed anxiously on
the changed and ashy countenance of his lord; but he spoke not, and
led the war-horse, who knew his hand better than that of any of the
Huns, down to the bank of the river. A raft, such as had borne
Theodore across once before, was waiting with some of the rude boatmen
of the Danube, and in two voyages the whole party which accompanied
the young Roman was borne across and landed on the other side of the
river.
Dacia was now before his steps; and although he could not but feel a
chilly coldness at the thought that he had passed, perhaps for ever,
the boundary of his native land; had left behind him, for an unlimited
space of years, all those scenes and objects linked to the brightest
memories of his heart; had entered upon a course where all was new and
strange, where much was dark and doubtful, and much distinctly
painful; and that he had nothing in prospect, at the very best, but a
long, dull lapse of years, among nations inferior to his own in every
point of intellect and every art of social life; yet there was a
feeling of joy broke across the gloom of such anticipations when he
remembered the sights of horror which he had just beheld on the Roman
frontier, and felt that he would be called to mingle in such scenes no
more. The very feeling gave him new energy; the morning air seemed to
revive him; and he spurred on with the rest through the wide forest
that lay before their steps, and across which a grass-grown track
afforded them a way into the interior of the country.
In less than three hours, at the rapid rate at which they travelled,
they had crossed the belt of wood which for a considerable way
bordered the Danube. Beyond that belt stretched out a plain, which
would have seemed interminable had not the blue lines of some distant
mountains, rising up against the far horizon, marked its boundary.
Except where, here and there, was seen a line of forest ground,
looking like a group of bushes in the vast extent over which the eye
could stretch, the whole plain seemed covered with long green grass,
waving like a mighty lake as a light wind bent it to and fro in the
morning sunshine.
There was something grand and expansive in the view, notwithstanding
its vast monotony; and as Theodore paused for a moment, and let his
horse breathe upon the edge of the slight slope on which the forest
ended, he gazed with some feelings of surprise and admiration upon the
new world which was henceforth to be his habitation. That feeling
again refreshed him; but much need had he indeed of refreshment, and
of anything which could give even a momentary support to that strength
which was failing fast under the pressure of fatigue and illness.
"Let your horse pause for a moment and eat," said the Hun who rode by
his side. "We are a long way from a resting-place: under those woods
is our first village."
Theodore did as the other advised, but his heart grew faint at such a
notification of the length of way; for though he would not pause nor
yield so long as any powers of life were left, yet he felt that the
powers of life were waning, and that, if he reached not soon some
place where he could obtain refreshment and repose, he should never
reach it at all, but sink of unwonted weariness by the way.
In a few minutes they again began their journey through the plain,
riding up to their horses' chests in the long rich grass, which,
though it proved no obstacle to the small, quick horses of the Huns,
impeded and irritated at every step the fiery charger which had
carried the young Roman. In the meanwhile the summer sun got high, and
poured its burning rays upon Theodore's unsheltered head; a white,
filmy, and oppressive mist rose up from the moist plain, not thick
enough to impede the sight, but tinging every object with a peculiar
hue. For a long time nothing diversified the scene, nothing
interrupted the monotony of their progress; out at length an immense
bird sprang up almost from under their horses' feet, and spreading its
wings, without rising from the ground, ran on with extraordinary speed
before them.
"An ostrich! an ostrich!" cried Cremera, forgetting the distance
between the spot where he then stood and his own porphyry
mountains--"an ostrich! a young ostrich!"
But the Hun who was by his side paused for a moment without speaking,
poised the javelin he carried in his hand, and launched it with a
strong arm in the air. Falling with unerring aim, it struck the great
bustard between the wings; and, riding on, the Hun took it up and
slung it over his shoulders, saying, "This will secure our evening
meal."
Still they rode on, and more and more terrible grew the lassitude of
the Roman youth; the heat was overpowering; the way seemed
interminable, and that distant line of wood towards which their steps
were bent, though appearing certainly to grow larger, yet was
approached so slowly that Theodore, as he gazed upon it, felt his
heart grow faint with the despair of ever arriving at the calm shelter
which he vainly hoped there to find. With his lip parched, with his
eye glazed, with his cheek pale yet burning, and with his hands
scarcely able to hold the reins, still he rode on, looking forward
with an anxious, straining gaze upon those woods, thinking they never
would be reached. Wider and wider they stretched out before him. The
plain on which he had seen them stand alone, like a group of bushes,
when he had gazed on them from the distant heights, now seemed bounded
by them entirely on that side. As he came nearer he could distinguish
the vast rolling masses of forest, the dark, deep brakes where glades
or savannas intervened; and at length, while with his dim and dizzy
sight he scanned eagerly the scene before him, he thought he could
perceive some low, wooden cottages, crouching, as if for shelter,
beneath the wide-extended arms of the tall trees upon the edge. That
sight again gave him a momentary impulse; he urged his horse on; he
saw the cottages more distinctly; but, as with that last effort he
attempted to reach them, strength, and hope, and thought all gave way
at once, and, with just the consciousness of utter exhaustion, he fell
fainting from his horse.
A lapse of time succeeded, over which Theodore's memory had no power.
He had talked, he had suffered, he had raved, he had struggled during
the interval; he had named names which those around him did not know;
he had spoken a thousand things which they could not comprehend, while
for fourteen days he had lain tossed between life and death, and
tended by the hands of strangers. But of all that he had no
recollection when at length reasoning consciousness had returned.
It was the evening of a sweet summer's day, when, opening his eyes, he
looked around and wondered where he was. There was a small chamber,
lined with smooth and fragrant pine wood, from the cracks and crevices
of which the fresh resin was yet oozing. On the walls hung, in
fantastic garlands, many a barbarian instrument of war, spears and
swords, the quiver of arrows and the unstrung bow, the buckler, the
club, and the far-slaying sling. There, too, beneath, on stands and
tables of wood, might be seen a number of strange idols, wild,
unseemly shapes, such as a child might carve for sport out of a block
of wood. Settles and tables were there also, of the same plain
material, but on some of them appeared objects of a more valuable kind
and a richer workmanship. There lay, even in abundance, gems and gold,
bearing evident marks of cultivated taste and skilful art; but there
were two things more sweet than any other could have been to
Theodore's senses at that moment, which called all attention from
every other object.
The first was the calm, sweet breath of the summer evening, borne
light and fragrant through the open window; the other was the sweet,
melodious voice of a woman singing.
He turned his eyes to where the singer sat beside the bed on which he
was stretched, and saw a girl of some seventeen years of age, with
bright brown hair, worn not as Roman women wore it, but parted on the
fair forehead, and thrust in clustering ringlets behind her ears. The
face was very sweet and beautiful, and everything would have been
soft--perhaps too soft for great interest--had it not been for the
deep, devoted blue eyes. They were somewhat darker in hue than the sky
by day; but yet, as they gazed forth from the long dark lashes, they
looked like that same azure heaven at the moment when its colour is
most deep, yet most pure, just ere the curtain of the night falls over
its expanse. She saw the youth turn his eyes upon her; but, thinking
only that sleep had fled again from his still fevered brain, she
recommenced the song she had been singing, while her small white hands
continued to ply the light labour of the distaff. Theodore, however,
could now hear and understand; and he listened with delight that
cannot be told, while, in the Alan tongue, the language of his own
dear mother, she sang, with a sweet, soft, rounded voice--
THE SONG OF SLEEP.
"Come, gentle sleep, to the couch of the stranger,
From thought's weary burden, oh give him relief!
Take mem'ries of anguish and prospects of danger,
The future's dull care and the past's heavy grief.
"Sweet friend of our childhood, thou strewest with flowers
The pillow where infancy rests her calm head,
When weary with sporting through long happy hours,
With thee for her angel, she seeks the soft bed.
"Coy visitant, come! We prize thee more highly,
In years more mature when we've tried the world's truth;
Why com'st thou so rarely? why fly'st thou so shyly?
Oh what thus estranges the friend of our youth?
"We've been false to thy friendship, despised thy caresses;
For pleasures we've left thee, and even for cares;
The faithful, the tranquil, the humble, sleep blesses,
But flies from the couch that one wild passion shares.
"Yet, balm-giver, yet, for the sick and the weary,
Thy merciful gifts we implore as a boon;
Oh give us thine aid, on our way long and dreary--
Aid, tardily valued, and lost all too soon!"