Meanwhile Bissula had recovered consciousness. The loud summons of the
tubas, giving the signal for the sally of the Romans, had roused her.
Raising herself in her hiding-place behind the beams and planks which,
piled one above another to the height of a man, completely concealed
her, she peered through the openings between them. Her heart throbbed
with joy as she saw the lake gate, hitherto so impenetrably and
inexorably closed against her, now standing wide open. Cautiously,
crouching like a kitten that tries to escape the hand outstretched to
seize it, she glided to the western corner of her hiding-place and
looked out at the gate.
Yet, ardently as she longed for liberty, and familiar as was the
fearless daughter of the forest by the lake with all the perils and
horrors of the primeval woods and the waves, she was but a girl, and
had never before witnessed the terrors of murderous battles. But now
Bissula saw the bloody scenes, of which, hitherto, she had only heard
from her uncle or some bard at a feast celebrating a victory: she saw,
and trembled.
By the light of the two wings of the gate, now blazing furiously, the
torches of the Romans, and the bundles of faggots hurled among the
tents by the Alemanni, she saw close at hand, beyond the ditch, the
bloody, murderous conflict. She saw the meeting between the Romans, as
they burst from the camp, and the assailing bands of her own people;
saw things which sent a thrill of horror through every vein.
Trembling in every limb she sank down, as though paralyzed, on a pile
of lumber behind her, and gazed with dilated eyes, through the gate at
the terrible spectacle, from which, with all its horrors, she could not
avert her gaze, or even lower her eyelids. Suddenly she saw Saturninus,
then he vanished, hidden by his Illyrians, then reappeared, far in the
van. She recognized the King of the Ebergau,--he had given her a clasp
at the last spring festival,--then she saw him fall backward without
rising again. The little figure at his side, with fair curls floating
around his uncovered head, was Sippilo. So the plunge from the wall had
not injured him.
Then a gigantic Illyrian, swinging a blazing torch,--a terrible
weapon,--approached him from the side. The boy did not see the brand
uplifted above him; Bissula, forgetting all danger to herself, shrieked
loudly. Then the soldier sank. For an instant she saw, by the glare of
the torch, Adalo, who had rescued his brother, and she rejoiced at the
spectacle, but the torch went out as its bearer fell. The brothers
vanished from her sight. Directly afterwards she heard in loud, wailing
tones the cry of many voices: "Adalo! alas for Adalo! alas for the
Adeling!"
Horror and anxiety for her friend made her heart sink: she could get no
further glimpse of him. And, from the camp behind her, a fresh uproar
arose, which swiftly drew nearer. It was Hariowald, now with his men
driving the last Batavians (Bissula recognized Rignomer) from the
fortress of wagons, and the scattered Romans flying down all the
streets through the Decumanian Gate. She attempted to join the pursuing
Alemanni, but their arrows and spears flew close about her; a stone
from a sling fell crashing against a beam above her head and,
terrified, she threw herself face downward on the ground and let the
dangerous stream of foe and friend roar past her into the distance.
The camp soon became still, absolutely still. Outside the gate, too,
the din of battle swept very swiftly down the hill toward the lake.
Bissula rose again and looked through the gate. In the distance she
saw, though indistinctly, the surging ranks pour down the slope; she
could scarcely distinguish the figures, but her people's shouts of
victory rang loudly in her ears. A rush of joy filled her heart and she
cried exultingly: "Victory! Liberty! Hurrah!" But the next instant she
said to herself reproachfully: "And Ausonius! And brave Saturninus!
Alas! and Adalo!"
Her grief, her terrible anxiety for her lover drove her from her
hiding-place even more powerfully than the longing for her liberation,
and she resolved to venture across the dreaded battlefield, lately so
full of uproar, now so horribly silent. The camp was deserted. At least
it seemed so, as Bissula, stealing cautiously around the corner of the
barricade, looked in every direction. She thought, too, of the faithful
bear: "Bruna! Here, Bruna!" she called up the streets of the camp as
loudly as she could; but no Bruna came. Though the burning tents still
gave light enough, she saw no upright figure near, either of friend or
foe. Only on the ground, here and there, some movement still remained.
A dead Celt lay directly across one of the streets, his helmet on his
head and the spear still in his rigid hand. With horror--she had never
before witnessed death, being only a few years old when she lost her
parents--she cautiously stepped over the broad mailed breast, holding
up her garments that they might not brush against the corpse. "Three
bounds," she thought, "and I shall reach the gate." She had already
raised her foot for a swift run, when a groan behind her reached her
ear. Involuntarily, though shaken by fresh fear, she looked around.
Terrible things exert a strange compulsion which at the same time
attracts and repels. A Roman severely wounded lay a few steps behind
her, his head resting on a tent-pole, his right arm propped on the
ground, and his left pressed against the gaping wound in his breast. He
must have seen the girl, for, instead of moaning, he now called, in
Latin, "Water, oh, pray give me some water!"
Bissula shrank in fear; besides, she dreaded to turn from the liberty
beckoning outside the gate to go back into the camp. But her woman's
heart conquered the terror, and she glanced around her to see if she
could find means to quench the sufferer's thirst. Then her eyes fell on
one of the huge tuns which, according to Roman camp regulations, always
stood filled with water beside each gate. It was so high that she could
scarcely look into it, but she pulled herself to the top with both
hands and saw that there was plenty of water inside. But where was she
to find a cup? All sorts of utensils lay scattered around, but neither
goblet nor vessel.
Then a thought flashed through her mind which at first made her
shudder. But she bravely conquered the girlish fright, went to the dead
Celt, loosed, with trembling fingers, the iron band which fastened the
helmet under his chin, drew it carefully, tenderly, as if the dead
could feel, from his head, then hastened to the cask, half filled it,
and carried it with both hands, the long horse-hair of the crest
trailing on the ground. She walked slowly, that she might not spill too
much, to the groaning man, who watched her movements with glassy eyes
and opened his mouth eagerly. Kneeling by his side, she held the helmet
sideways to his bearded lips. He drained it to the last drop, and with
a long sigh of relief, laid his head back on the pole and said, with an
effort:
"Are you a Christian?"
The girl shook back her red locks defiantly: "Freya and Frigga protect
me."
"No matter," replied the dying man, "Christ, the Saviour, girl, will
reward you for this drink!"
Bissula rose slowly, her glance rested upon the nearest street of tents
to the left and, with a sharp cry of terror, she dropped the helmet and
ran as swiftly as she could, toward the gate. For, down that street,
brightly illumined by the blaze of the burning tents, she saw, stealing
toward her, crouching like a beast of prey, with a dagger in his
hand,--Herculanus.