Thrasaric's guests were standing in the large open square of the grove,
directly in front of the Amphitheatre they had just left, most of them
with the expression and bearing of children caught by their master in
some forbidden act.
Thrasaric had shaken off the last vestige of intoxication.
"The King?" he murmured in a low tone. "The hero? I am ashamed of
myself." He pulled at the rose-wreath on his shaggy locks.
Gundomar, sword in hand, approached him with a defiant air.
"Fear was ever a stranger to you, son of Thrasamer. Now we must defy
the tyrant. Face him as we do."
But Thrasaric made no answer; he only shook his huge head, and repeated
to Eugenia, whom he had placed carefully on the ground by his side: "I
am ashamed in the King's presence. And my brother! My poor brother!"
"Poor Glauke!" sighed Eugenia. "But perhaps she is to be envied."
Now the Vandal horns blared again, and nearer. The King, whose approach
along the straight Street of the Legions was distinctly seen from a
long distance, dashed into the square, far in advance of his soldiers.
Only a few slaves bearing torches had succeeded in following him; his
brothers, who had summoned a troop of horsemen, were behind with them.
The King checked his snorting cream-colored charger directly in front
of Thrasaric and the nobles so suddenly that it reared.
"Insubordinate men! Disobedient people of the Vandals!" he shouted
reproachfully. "Is this the way you obey your sovereign's command? Do
you seek to draw upon your heads the wrath of Heaven? Who gave this
festival? Who directed it?"
"I gave it, my King," said Thrasaric, moving a step forward. "I deeply
repent it. Punish me. But spare him who at my request directed it, my
brother. He has--"
"Vanished with the dead girl," interrupted Gundobad. "I wanted to
appeal to him also to support with us Gundings the cause of the nobles
against the King--"
"For this hour," added Gundomar, "will decide whether we shall be serfs
of the Asdings or free nobles."
"Yes, I am weary of being commanded," said Modigisel.
"We are of no meaner blood than his," cried Gundobad, with a
threatening glance at the King. Already a large band of kinsmen,
friends, and followers, many of whom were armed, was gathering round
the Gundings.
Thrasaric was stepping into their midst to try to avert the impending
conflict, but he was now surrounded by throngs of his own and his
brother's slaves.
"My Lord," they cried, "Thrasabad has disappeared. What shall be done?
The festival--"
"Is over. Alas that it ever began!"
"But the races in the Circus opposite?"
"Will not take place! Lead the horses out! Return them to their
owners."
"I will not take the stallion until after we have thrown the dice,"
cried Modigisel. "Ay, tremble with rage. I hold you to your word."
"And the wild beasts?" urged a freedman. "They are roaring for food."
"Leave them where they are! Feed them!"
"And the Moorish prisoner?"
He could not answer; for while the racehorses, the stallion among them,
were being led from the Circus into the square between it and the
Amphitheatre, loud shouts rang from the exits of the latter.
"The Moor! The captive! He has escaped! He is running away! Stop him!"
Thrasaric turned, and saw the figure of the young Moor coming toward
him. He had been bound hand and foot, and though successful in breaking
the rope around his ankles, he had been unable to sever the one firmly
fastened about his wrists, and was greatly impeded in forcing a way
through the crowd by his inability to use his hands.
"Let him go! Let him run!" ordered Thrasaric.
"No," shouted the pursuers. "He has just knocked his master down by a
blow of his fist. His master commanded it! He must die! A thousand
sestertii to the man who captures him."
Stones flew, and here and there a spear whizzed by.
"A thousand sestertii?" cried one Roman to another. "Friend Victor, let
us forget our quarrel and earn them together."
"Done. Halves, O Laurus!"
The fugitive now darted like an arrow straight toward Thrasaric. His
lithe, noble figure came nearer and nearer. Lofty wrath glowed on the
finely moulded young face. Then, close beside Thrasaric, Laurus grasped
at the rope hanging from the Moor's wrists. A violent jerk, the youth
fell. Victor grasped his arm.
"The thousand sestertii are ours," cried Laurus, drawing the rope
toward him.
"No," exclaimed Thrasaric, snatching his short-sword from its sheath.
The weapon flashed through the cord. "Fly, Moor!"
The youth was instantly on his feet again; one grateful glance at the
Vandal, and he was in the midst of the race-horses.
"Oh, the stallion! My stallion!" shouted Modigisel. But the Moor was
already on the back of the magnificent animal. A word in its ear, the
horse sprang forward, the crowd scattered shrieking, and already Styx
and his rider were flying over the road to Numidia in the sheltering
darkness of the night.
"The stallion," muttered Modigisel. "That will cost me the casting of
the dice for the young wife."
Thrasaric gazed after the horse in amazement. "O God, I thank Thee! I
will deserve it; I will atone. Come, little one. To the King! He seems
to need me."
Meanwhile the nobles and their followers had pressed forward
threateningly against the King, who did not yield a step.
"We will not be ruled by you," cried Gundomar.
"We will not be forbidden to enjoy the pleasures of life!" exclaimed
Modigisel. "To-morrow, whether you are willing or not, I will invite my
friends. We will meet again in this arena."
"No, you will not," said the King, quietly, and taking the torch from
the hand of the nearest slave he rose in his stirrups, and, with a sure
aim, hurled it high over the heads of the crowd into the silk tent,
which instantly caught fire and blazed up brightly. Loud roars came
from the cages of the wild beasts.
"Do you dare?" shrieked Gundobad. "This house is not yours. It belongs
to the Vandal nation! How dare you destroy their pleasures, merely
because you do not share them?"
"And why do you not share them?" added Gundomar. "Because you are no
true man, no real Vandal."
"An enthusiast--no king of a race of heroes!"
"Why do you so often tremble?"
"Who knows whether some secret sin does not burden you?"
"Who knows whether your courage will not fail when danger--"
Just at that moment, drowning every other sound, a shrill shriek of
horror, of mortal fear, rang from many hundred throats; a short,
exulting roar could scarcely be heard through the tumult. "The tiger!
The tiger is free!" rose from the arena.
And rushing thence in a dense crowd, frantic with terror, came men,
women, and children, all struggling together. Everywhere they met other
throngs, and, unable to go farther, jostled, pushed, stumbled, fell,
and were trampled under foot.
Above them, on the first story of the Amphitheatre, directly opposite
to the King, the broken chain trailing from its collar, crouched the
huge tiger, lashing his flanks with his tail, his jaws wide open,
hesitating between the spur of his fierce hunger and the fear of the
torches and human beings. At last hunger conquered. The beast's eyes
had rested upon one of the race-horses in front of the Amphitheatre,
and lingered on it as though spellbound. A throng of people surged
between the animal and its prey. The leap was almost beyond its powers;
but greed urged on the monster and, with a low cry, it sprang over the
heads of the multitude upon its chosen victim.
All the shrieking people pressed in the same direction. The horses
shied; the tiger's leap fell short; he reached the ground scarcely two
feet from the racer, which broke its halter and dashed away. The tiger
never repeats a spring it has missed. Hasdrubal was shrinking back, as
if ashamed; but as he stretched out his right fore-paw, it fell upon
warm, soft, living flesh. A child, a little girl about four years old,
in the gay, spangled dress of a Love, had been torn from the side of
her mother and thrown down by the fugitives. There she was, lying on
her face in the soft grass, the delicate rosy flesh between her head
and shoulders rising above her little white dress. The tiger thrust his
paw forward and held the child down by the neck--but only for an
instant. Suddenly he drew back the length of his body, uttering a roar
whose fury far exceeded any previous one, for an enemy advancing on
foot dared to dispute possession of his prey. The great cat gathered
himself to leap, the terrible leap which must overthrow any man. But
before the beast could straighten himself for the bound, his adversary
thrust a Vandal sword between the yawning jaws to the very hilt, and
pierced the spine.
Carried down by the impetus of the blow, the man fell for a moment on
the dead tiger; but he instantly sprang up, stepped back, and lifted
the stupefied child from the ground.
"Gelimer! Hail to King Gelimer! Hail to the hero!" shouted the crowd.
Even the Romans joined in the acclamation. "Are you unharmed, O King?"
asked Thrasaric.
"As the child," said the latter, calmly, placing the little one in the
arms of its weeping, trembling mother, who kissed the hem of the white
royal mantle, stained with the wild beast's blood.
Gelimer wiped his sword-blade on the tiger's soft skin and thrust it
into the sheath. Then he went back to his horse and stood drawn up to
his full height, leaning against its shoulder, his helmeted head held
proudly erect. He had retained as king the old helmet with the wings of
the black vulture (they seemed now to stir in menace), and merely added
Genseric's pointed crown. A look of sorrowful contempt rested on the
throng; Deep silence reigned for the moment; speech failed even the
boldest of the nobles.