A tall figure appeared in the colonnade leading from the interior of
the dwelling to the open doorway of the hall.
This man without helmet, breastplate, or sword-belt wore a
tight-fitting dark-gray robe, destitute of color or ornament. He often
paused in his slow advance as if lost in meditation, with hands clasped
behind his back; his head drooped forward a little, as though burdened
by anxious thought. His lofty brow was deeply furrowed; his light-brown
hair and beard were thickly sprinkled with gray, which formed a strange
contrast to his otherwise youthful appearance. His eyes were fixed
steadily on the floor,--their color and expression were still
unrecognizable,--and pausing again under the pillared arch of the
entrance, he sighed heavily.
"Hail, Gelimer, victorious hero!" cried the young wife, joyously. "Take
what I have had ready for you ever since your return home was announced
to-day." Seizing a thick laurel wreath lying on the table before her,
she eagerly raised it. A slight but expressive wave of the hand stopped
her.
"Wreaths are not suited for the sinner's head," said the new-comer in a
low tone, "but ashes, ashes!"
Hilda, hurt and sorrowful, laid down the garland.
"Sinner?" cried her husband, indignantly. "Why, yes; so are we all--in
the eyes of the saints. But you less than others. Are we never to
rejoice?"
"Let those rejoice who can!"
"Oh, brother, you too can rejoice. When the hero spirit comes, when the
whirl of battle surrounds you, with loud shouts (I heard it myself and
my heart exulted in your delight), you dashed before us all into the
thickest throng of the Moorish riders. And you cried aloud from sheer
joy when you tore the banner from the hand of the fallen bearer; you
had ridden him down by the mere shock of your charger's rush."
"Ay, that was indeed beautiful!" cried Gelimer, suddenly lifting his
head, while a pair of large brown eyes flashed from under long dark
lashes. "Isn't the cream stallion superb? He overthrows everything. He
bears victory."
"Ay, when he bears Gelimer!" exclaimed a clear voice, and a
boy--scarcely beyond childhood, for the first down was appearing on his
delicate rosy cheeks--a boy strongly resembling Gibamund and Gelimer
glided across the threshold and rushed with outstretched arms toward
the hero.
"Oh, brother, how I love you! And how I envy you! But on the next
pursuit of the Moors you must take me with you, or I will go against
your will." And he threw both arms around his brother's towering
figure.
"Ammata, my darling, my heart's treasure," cried Gelimer, tenderly,
stroking the lad's long golden locks with a loving touch, "I have
brought you from the booty a little milk-white horse as swift as the
wind. I thought of you the instant it was led before me. And you, fair
sister-in-law, forgive me. I was unkind when I came in; I was foil of
heavy cares. For I came--"
"From the King," cried a deep voice from the corridor, and a man in
full armor rushed in, whose strong resemblance to the others marked him
as the fourth brother. Features of noble mould, a sharp but finely
modelled nose, broad brow, and yellow, fiery eyes set almost too deeply
beneath arched brows were peculiar to all these royal Asdings, the
descendants of the sun-god Frey.
Gelimer's glance alone was usually subdued as if veiled, dreamy as if
lost in uncertainty; but when it suddenly flashed with enthusiasm or
wrath its mighty glow was startling; and the narrow oval of the face,
which in all was far removed from roundness, in Gelimer seemed almost
too thin.
The man who had just entered was somewhat shorter than the latter, but
much broader-chested and larger-limbed. His head, surrounded with
short, close-curling brown hair, rested on a strong neck; the cheeks
were reddened by health and robust vitality, and now by fierce anger.
Although only a year younger than Gelimer, he seemed still a fiery
youth beside his prematurely aged brother. In furious indignation he
flung the heavy helmet, from which the crooked horns of the African
bull buffalo threatened, upon the table, making the wine splash over
the glasses.
"From Hilderic," he repeated, "the most ungrateful of human beings!
What was the hero's reward for the new victory? Suspicion! Fear
of rousing jealousy in Constantinople! The coward! My beautiful
sister-in-law, you have more courage in your little finger than this
King of the Vandals in his heart and his sword-hand. Give me a cup of
wine to wash down my rage."
Hilda quickly sprang up, filled the goblet, and offered it to him.
"Drink, brave Zazo! Hail to you and all heroes, and--"
"To hell with Hilderic!" cried the furious soldier, draining the beaker
at a single draught.
"Hush, brother! What sacrilege!" exclaimed Gelimer, with a clouded
brow.
"Well, for aught I care, to heaven with him! He'll suit that far better
than the throne of the sea-king Genseric."
"There you give him high praise," said Gelimer.
"I don't mean it. As I stood there while he questioned you so
ungraciously, I could have--But reviling him is useless. Something must
be done. I remained at home this time for a good reason: it was hard
enough for me to let you go forth to victory alone! But I secretly kept
a sharp watch on this fox in the purple, and have discovered his
tricks. Send away this pair of wedded lovers, I think they have much to
say to each other alone; the child Ammata, too; and listen to my
report, my suspicion, my accusation: not only against the King, but
others also."
Gibamund threw his arm tenderly around his slender wife, and the boy
ran out of the hall in front of them.