The underbrush grew thinner, evidently removed by human hands; a few
steps more and the pursuer stood in an open space in the forest which
had been cleared by fire. Here stood a little hut, very roughly built
of unhewn logs: instead of doors two low narrow holes were opposite
each other. Such buildings were used by hunters for stations, by
shepherds overtaken in the forest by storms for a shelter, but
especially to keep quantities of hay which could not be dragged to the
distant barns. That was the case here; heaps of the grass piled in
stacks could be seen through the holes.
Before Herculanus had reached the hut, an indistinct sound reached his
ear from the right, the shore of the lake. He drew his sword and
stopped, listening intently. There it came again! Was it a cry? It
seemed like the shout with which Romans on guard gave warning of the
presence of a foe. Directly afterwards he heard another noise: it was
like the whirring of the string in bending and releasing the wood of
the bow, then came a heavy fall or plunge into the water, and all was
still again. Nothing but the metallic tapping of the woodpecker broke
the silence of the forest.
Cautiously raising his shield to his eyes and looking watchfully toward
the right, the Roman, with his thin figure drawn to its foil height,
waited several seconds longer: nothing stirred.
He now sprang in two bounds across the open ground to the hut of hay,
stooped and entered through the northern hole. Something rustled under
the thick grass, which seemed to be alive: something glided beneath
it--was it a weasel?--toward the opposite hole: only the waving motion
of the bundles of hay betrayed the direction.
Herculanus hastily grasped with his shield arm at the creature making
the rustling and lifted the broad short sword in his right for a
death-stroke. He seized something warm and drew it upward from the hay,
which fell on the right and left as he dragged forward a girl whose
face was covered with tangled red locks and blades of grass, through
which she gazed in mortal terror and fiery wrath at her assailant.
So strange, so bewitchingly beautiful was the young creature that
Herculanus uttered a fierce cry of pleasure. He had vowed that the
first moment he had the dangerous Barbarian alone within reach of his
sword, should be her last; and even now he did not really waver in the
resolve. Neither pity nor passion could influence a mind fixed solely
on his uncle's wealthy yet so much youthful beauty awakened a fleeting
desire for it: before he stabbed the foe, he would have one kiss from
those red lips. So, reserving his right hand for the death-blow, he
drew her closer to him with the left. The girl struggled with the
strength of despair. Turning her head as far as possible from him, she
uttered a cry of terror, like a dying fawn. It was only a moment's
delay of the assassin's thrust, but it saved her.
Before Herculanus could press his lips on her averted face a shadow
fell from outside upon the opening toward the lake, where the
struggling figures were now standing. "Murderer!" cried a deep voice;
and Herculanus, receiving a severe blow on the breast, staggered back,
loosing his hold upon his captive. Swiftly as the trout glides away,
the girl tried to slip through the opening; but she felt her arm seized
in the iron grasp of a much stronger hand, and looked up at another
helmeted Roman.
"Is it you, Tribune?" stammered Herculanus, hastily thrusting his sword
into the sheath.
The latter did not vouchsafe him a single word. "You are Bissula,
little one, are you not?" he asked, gazing with wondering eyes at the
strange vision. A sweet rapture ran through his veins as he saw the
lovely little face, the delicate, graceful limbs, the bare white feet,
and felt the pulsing of the young life through the round arm his hand
held so firmly.
The prisoner made no reply, but she looked up trustfully into the
Illyrian's handsome, manly face. Then she cast a strange glance, as if
seeking for some one, back into the hut,--Saturninus had dragged her
from the doorway into the open air,--and seemed to be listening
anxiously.
"Yes, it is Bissula," said Herculanus, now also coming out. "What made
you imagine that I wanted to kill her? I have been searching for her
since the earliest dawn."
"So I thought."
"Not for myself; I was only holding her firmly to prevent her escape."
"With a quivering sword uplifted to strike?"
"Only to frighten her."
But Bissula cast a reproachful glance at him.
"However that may be," the Illyrian continued, "she is my captive." His
glowing eyes rested on her; the girl lowered her long lashes in
embarrassment.
"No, no! I discovered her."
"But before you seized her a second time--for she was free again--I
captured her. Dare to contradict it, you murderer of girls!" and he
advanced threateningly toward him.
The sound of a tuba rang from the forest.
"We must return. The tuba gives a sign of warning," said Saturninus.
"The first trace of the foe has been found--not only the child--a man."
Bissula looked up anxiously.
"He lay covered with skins," the other added, as they moved forward,
"hidden among the rushes so that he could not be distinguished from a
fallen tree. Before we could seize him--"
Bissula uttered a sigh of relief.
"He had vanished in the sedges. A Batavian archer shot an arrow after
him. Hark! the Prefect is giving the signal again. Come without fear,
child."
He led her by the wrist, carefully trying not to hurt her; but she
often stopped, glancing back at the hut, and once also at the lake.
After a few steps they heard the neighing of a horse and soon entered
an opening in the forest, where Ausonius had halted his mounted escort.
"Father Ausonius!" cried the captive joyously, struggling to release
herself to rush to him.
But the Illyrian's grasp on her arm became like iron. Approaching the
Prefect, who held out both arms to Bissula, he made a military salute,
saying sternly: "The first encounter with the enemy! A man has escaped:
a girl--this one--became my prisoner: my slave."
BOOK TWO
THE SLAVE