Oppressed by sad yearning and anxiety, the usually light-hearted child
had again walked this evening from her tent to the lake gate, and
thence, driven back by the shouts of the Thracian sentries, wandered
through the whole camp to her beloved pine-tree, which had begun to
supply the place of the oak beside her forest home: for the tree of the
earth-goddess also afforded a convenient ascent like a stairway on its
broad branches drooping to the sacrificial stones, while on the central
trunk was a hiding-place invisible from below, with a comfortable back,
and the beloved view over the Roman fortifications to the mountain
peaks rising in the distance.
The sun had set long before, and darkness gathered quickly in that
region as soon as the glowing ball had vanished behind the wooded
western shores of the lake. There was no moon; only a few stars were in
the sky.
The wind bore to her ears from the distance scattered sounds: the
neighing of a horse, the rattle of a weapon, the shout of a sentinel at
the gate. Oh, those guards, who also watched her here in her spacious
prison, prevented her escape, her return to her people--for how much
longer? Sorrow overpowered her, and she felt that tears were about to
flow. But her tyrants should not see them; she would weep her fill, up
above there!
Bissula glided lightly up and sat so still in her hiding-place among
the boughs that a belated bird--a blackbird--perched for the night,
without seeing her, a few branches above her head.
Then the girl saw two men step cautiously from behind corner tents,
each at the end of a street running in opposite directions across the
camp; they made signs to each other, gazed carefully behind and
sideways, then hurried forward and met directly under the pine-tree on
its northern side, so that the huge trunk completely concealed them
from the camp.
Bissula bent softly, softly downward: it was a man with a helmet and
one unarmed; she could not distinguish their features. They began to
talk, in whispers, it is true, but the listener understood many words,
and she now recognized the speakers by their voices.
"But I tell you, it must be this very day! He has ordered the scribe to
come early tomorrow morning, with the seal. He means to change his
will--to add a codicil. What good will his death do me, if he first
throws the best part of his riches into that wench's lap?"
The other made some reply which the girl did not hear.
"Ha!--she--she can't be reached!" answered the first speaker. "That
red-haired witch is under the protection of the fiends of hell."
"How so?"
"Why, one night lately--a deadly terror has seized me ever since when I
see the brown beast--the monster's hot, loathsome breath was steaming
from her open jaws into my face! She was within a hair's breadth of
clutching and squeezing me to death! This very evening--just now--at
supper--"
"Hark, what was that," asked the other startled, "up above in the
pine-tree? Didn't you hear anything?"
"Pshaw! The night-breeze in the branches!"
"No, no! It was--"
"Well, it was that bird! There it flies!"
The startled blackbird, loudly uttering its cry of fear and warning,
flew upward; the listener, in her horror, had pressed her hand upon her
throbbing heart and, by the slight movement, frightened the bird
perched so near her.
"Well then, by Tartarus, I will risk it! He complained again to-day,
before many witnesses, of fever and all sorts of pains. Have you
hemlock enough? Shall I give you my vial? I brought it with me. Here, I
always carry it in my breast."
"Enough for six uncles!"
"But the stuff must have a suspicious taste: sharp, bitter. Suppose he
should notice it too soon?"
"That's why I mixed the other half with honey. But take good care of
your store. Perhaps Prosper, in case he has any suspicion, must also--"
"Or the Barbarian girl, if the will has already--"
"Let us go," the other interrupted.
"Put it in the Emperor's goblet! He drinks from no other.--Quick: I go
to the left."
"And I go to the right."
The voices died away, and the footsteps echoed from two directions.
Horrified, almost paralyzed with terror, Bissula slipped down from the
tree. On reaching the ground she staggered, clinging to the trunk for
support, and for a moment wondered whether she had not fallen asleep
and dreamed. She could not realize, could not believe that such a deed
was possible. His own nephew--that kind-hearted man!
And yet it was true. Haste was necessary. The hour for the meal had
already come, and Ausonius always began by drinking from the Emperor's
goblet, with the three beautiful female figures, to the health of the
Emperor Gratianus.
Those two men had the start, too, and it was a considerable distance
from this extreme northwestern corner of the camp to the Praetorium in
the south. Turning, she ran as swiftly as she could, but had only
reached the corner of the nearest street of tents when she shrieked
aloud in terror. An iron hand grasped her arm.
"Help!" she screamed despairingly. "Help! Help for Ausonius!"
"Why are you shrieking like a dying leveret, little one?" replied a
deep voice. "Where are you going so fast?"
"Let me go, whoever you may be! The Prefect's life is in danger! Who
are you?"
"I am Rignomer. I followed you unnoticed till you climbed the tree. You
wouldn't have seen me now, if you hadn't dashed away as though you were
driven by the elves. Where are you going?"
"To the Prefect! They want to murder him!"
"Oh, nonsense, what are you talking about? Who?"
"Don't ask! Come with me! Hurry! Alas, perhaps even now it is too
late."
The Batavian yielded to this unmistakable despair. Without removing his
hand from her arm, he ran beside her.
"Where is the Tribune?" asked Bissula.
"With the Prefect: some news has come from Arbor."
"The gods be thanked. He is the only one who can help!"
On they ran through the streets of the camp, now perfectly dark except
where fires were glimmering at the corners. Suddenly Bissula fell. The
German dragged her up.
"A tent rope! You must keep more in the middle. But you are limping!
Did you hurt yourself?"
"A little. Keep on."
But she reeled; her feet refused to carry her.
"Now it's lucky that I caught you," said the soldier, swinging her on
his arm like a child. And Bissula, who usually so fiercely resisted
every touch, willingly permitted it.
"Throw your arms around my neck, little one! There. Now hold fast! It
won't be long" ("unfortunately" he thought, but took good care not to
say it), "we shall reach there directly." And he pressed on swiftly and
sturdily with his light, beautiful burden.