"Yield, brave man. Yield to me. I am Belisarius."

But Zazo shook his head. With failing strength he sprang up, his sword

raised to strike. Then the Roman General drove the point of his spear

with all his force through his breastplate up to the handle.

The dying warrior cast one more glance toward the left. He saw

Gibamund's white horse, covered with blood-stains, falling; he saw the

scarlet banner sink. "Woe betide thee, Vandalia!" he cried, as his eyes

grew dim in death.

"That was indeed a hero," said Belisarius, bending over him. "Where is

Genseric's banner, Fara?"

"Gone!" replied the latter, wrathfully. "Far away. Do you see? It is

already vanishing over there, beyond the stream."

"Who has--?"

"A woman. In a falcon helmet. With a shining white shield. I believe it

was a Valkyria," said the pagan, with a slight shiver of fear. "It

happened so swiftly I scarcely saw it. I had just struck down the young

standard-bearer's horse. Just at that moment a black steed--I never saw

such an animal--plunged against my own horse so that it fell back upon

its haunches. I heard a cry: 'Hilda! I thank you!' At the same moment

the black charger dashed far, far away from me. I think it now carried

two figures! A long fluttering white mantle--or was it swan-wings?--and

above floated the scarlet banner. There, now they are vanishing in that

cloud of dust. 'Hilda!' the German murmured to himself. The name suits

too. Yes, the Valkyria bore him away."

"Forward!" shouted Belisarius. "Follow! Over the stream! There is no

longer a Vandal army. The centre is broken and defeated. Their left

wing--aha, look yonder, our right wing, the faithful Huns--" He laughed

grimly. "Now they are rushing from their hill, hewing down the flying

Barbarians. What heroism! And how they are all struggling to reach the

camp to plunder! Now, at last, our infantry have joined our left wing;

there, too, the Vandals are flying without a struggle. On, to the camp!

Do not let the Huns secure the whole booty. All the gold and silver for

the Emperor, the pearls and precious stones for the Empress! Forward!"

CHAPTER XVI

PROCOPIUS TO CETHEGUS:

I have witnessed many a battle, many a conflict of Belisarius,--usually

from a very safe distance,--but never have I seen so strange an

encounter. In this, which decides the fate of the Vandal kingdom, we

have lost in all only forty-nine men, but solely picked warriors, and

among them eight commanders. Fara, Althias, and Johannes,--all three

are wounded. Yet we have not many--perhaps a hundred--wounded men, as

the Vandals fought only with the sword. That yields almost as many

killed as wounded. Most of our dead and wounded may be credited to the

three Asdings, two noblemen in boar helmets, and an apparently crazy

monk. Eight hundred Vandal corpses covered the field, by far the larger

number of these fell during the flight. We have captured, sound and

wounded, about ten thousand men; women and children unnumbered. In our

two wings we did not lose a single warrior, except one Hun whom

Belisarius was unfortunately compelled to hang. He had stuffed pockets,

shoes, hair, and ears with pearls and gems which he picked up in the

Vandal camp, especially in the women's tents, and which our Empress has

honestly earned.

Our pursuit of the Vandals was checked only by our greed. The fallen

and captive Vandals had many ornaments of gold and silver on their

persons, their horses, and themselves; our heroes plundered every one

before passing on. Our horsemen, who reached the camp first, did not

venture, in spite of their longing to pillage, to enter it at once;

they thought it impossible that a force so superior in numbers should

not defend their own camp, their wives and children.

The King is said to have paused a moment as if stupefied; but when

Belisarius with our whole body appeared before the tents, he exclaimed,

"The avenger!" and pursued his flight toward Numidia, attended by a few

relatives, servants, and faithful Moors. Now all the Vandal warriors

who had reached the camp scattered in wild confusion, surrendering

their shrieking children, their weeping wives, their rich possessions,

without a single sword-stroke; and these men are, or were, Germans! It

would be no wonder if Justinian should now try at once to liberate

Italy and Spain from the Goths.

Our men dashed after the fugitives. All the rest of the day and the

whole moonlight night they slaughtered the Vandals without resistance;

they seized women and children by thousands to use them as slaves.

Never yet have I beheld so much beauty. Nor have I ever seen such heaps

of gold and silver money as in the tents of the King and the Vandal

nobles. It is incredible.

Belisarius was tortured after his victory by the most terrible anxiety.

For in this camp, filled to overflowing with the most beautiful women,

treasures of every description, wine and provisions, the whole army

forgot every trace of discipline. Fairly intoxicated with their

undreamed of good fortune, they lived solely for the pleasure of the

moment; every barrier gave way, every curb broke; they could not

satisfy themselves. The demon of Africa, pleasure, seized upon them.

They roved, singly and in couples, through the camp and its vicinity,

following the track of the fugitives wherever the search for booty or

revelry lured them. There was no thought of the enemy, no fear of the

General. Those who were still sober, laden with treasure and driving

their captives before them, tried to escape to Carthage. Belisarius

says that if the Vandals had attacked us again an hour after we took

possession of their camp, not a man of us all would have escaped. The

victorious army, even his bodyguard, had entirely thrown off his

control.

At the gray dawn of morning with the blast of the trumpets he summoned

all the warriors; that is, all who were sober. His bodyguard now came

hastily in deep shame. Instead of thanks and praise, he gave leaders

and men a lecture such as I never before heard from his lips. We have

become mere hired soldiers, adventurers, ruffians, fierce and brave,

like greedy beasts of prey; well suited for bloody pursuit, like

hunting leopards, but not fit to leave the captured game to the hunter

or bring it in and fasten it in a cage; we must first have our share of

the blood and the food. It is by no means beautiful; yet it is far more

enjoyable than philosophy and theology, rhetoric, grammar, and

dialectics. But the Vandal War is over, I think. To-morrow we shall

doubtless capture the fugitive King.

* * * * *

I always say so. The most weighty decisions hinge upon the most trivial

incidents. Or, as I express it when I am in a very poetical mood, the

goddess Tyche likes to sport with the destinies of men and nations, as

boys toss coins in the air and determine gain and loss by "heads"

or "tails."

You, O Cethegus, have condemned my philosophy of the world's history as

old wives' croaking. But judge for yourself. A bird's cry, a blind

delight in hunting, a shot sent to the wrong mark, and the result is

this: the Vandal King escapes when already within the grasp of our

fingers; the campaign, which seemed ended, continues, and your friend

must spend weeks in an extremely tiresome besieging camp before an

extremely unnecessary Moorish mountain village.

Belisarius had committed the pursuit of the fugitive King to his

countryman, the Thracian Althias. "I choose you," he said, "because I

trust you above all others where swift, tireless action is needed. If

you overtake the Vandal before he finds refuge, the war will be over

tomorrow; if you permit him to escape, you will give us long-continued

severe toil. Choose your own men, but do not take time to breathe by

night or day until you seize the tyrant, dead or alive."

Althias blushed like a flattered girl. He took besides his Thracians

several of the bodyguard and about a hundred Herulians under Fara. He

asked me also to accompany him, less, probably, for the sake of my

sword than my counsel. I willingly consented.

And now a flying chase, such as I had never imagined possible, began in

the rear of the Vandals. Five days and five nights, almost without a

pause, we pursued the fugitives; their hoofmarks and footprints in the

sand of the desert were unmistakable. We gained on them more and

more, so that on the fifth night we were sure of overtaking and

stopping them the next day before they reached the protection of the

mountain--Pappua, it is called.

But the capricious goddess did not wish to have Gelimer fall into the

hands of Althias. Uliari, one of the Alemanni bodyguards of Belisarius,

is a brave, strong man, but reckless, fond of drink like all Germans,

and, like nearly all his countrymen, a passionate lover of the chase.

He had been repeatedly punished because, while on the march, he pursued

every animal that appeared. On the morning of the sixth day, just at

sunrise, as we were remounting our horses after a short rest, Uliari

saw a big vulture perched on a prickly bush about the height of a man,

which rose alone from the desert plain. To seize his bow, snatch an

arrow from the quiver, aim, and shoot was the work of a single instant.

The cord twanged, the bird flew away, a cry rose. Althias, who had

again dashed forward in advance of us all, fell from his horse, wounded

in the back of the head under his helmet. Uliari, usually an unerring

marksman, had not yet slept off his potations of the night before.

Horrified by his deed, he set spurs to his horse and fled to the

nearest village to seek sanctuary in its chapel.

But we were all trying to help the dying Althias, though he commanded

us by signs to leave him to his fate and continue the pursuit. We could

not bring ourselves to do it. Nay, when Fara and I, after our friend

had died in our arms, wished to go on; his Thracians demanded with

threats that the body should first be buried, otherwise the soul would

be condemned to wail around the place until the Day of Judgment. So we

dug a grave and interred the dead hero with every honor. These few

hours decided Gelimer's escape; we could not make up the lost time. The

fugitives reached their goal, the Pappua Mountains on the frontier of

Numidia, whose steep, inaccessible peaks everywhere bristle with jagged

rocks. The Moors who dwell here are bound to Gelimer by ties of loyalty

and gratitude. An ancient city, Medenus, now a mere hamlet of a few

huts on the northern crest of the mountain, received him and his train.

To storm this narrow antelope path is impossible; a single man can bar

the ascent with his shield. The Moors have scornfully rejected an offer

of a large reward to deliver up the fugitives. So the watchword is

"patience." We must pitch our tents at the foot of the mountain, bar

all the outlets, and starve the people into a surrender.

That may occupy a great deal of time. And it is winter; the mountain

peaks are often covered in the morning with a light snow, which, it is

true, the sun soon melts when he breaks through the clouds. But he does

not always break through. On the other hand, mist and rain continually

penetrate the camel-skin coverings of our tents.

CHAPTER XVII

We are still encamped before the entrance of the mountain ravine of

Pappua. We cannot get in; they cannot get out. I have seen a cat watch

a mouse-hole a long time in the same way,--very tiresome for the cat.

But if the hole has no other outlet, the little mouse finally either

starves or runs into the cat's claws.

To-day news and reinforcements came from Carthage. Belisarius, who had

been informed of the state of affairs, gave the chief command to Fara

in the place of Althias. Fara and his Herulians won Belisarius's most

glorious victory, in the Persian battle at Dara, when the Roman ranks

were beginning to waver and only the German boldness which is nearly

allied to madness could save the day. Fara left more than half his

Herulians dead on the field. The General himself is marching on Hippo.

* * * * *

Fresh news--from Hippo.

Belisarius took the city without resistance. The Vandals, among them

numerous nobles, fled to the Catholic churches, and left these asylums

only on the assurance that their lives would be spared. And again the

wind blew, literally, rich gains into our hands. The Tyrant,

distrusting the fidelity of the citizens and the broken walls, had

prudently removed the royal treasure of the Vandals from the citadel of

Carthage, and placed it on a ship. He ordered Bonifacius, his private

secretary, in case the victory of the Vandals seemed uncertain, to sail

to Hispania to Theudis, the King of the Visigoths, with whom, if the

kingdom fell, Gelimer intended to seek refuge, perhaps with the

expectation of recovering the treasure by the aid of the Visigoths.

A violent storm drove the ship back into the harbor of Hippo, just

after Belisarius had occupied it. The treasure of the Vandals, gathered

by Genseric from the coasts and islands of three seas, will go into the

hands of the imperial pair at Constantinople. Theodora, your piety is

profitable!

Yet no; the royal treasure of the Vandals will not reach Constantinople

absolutely intact. And this is due to a singular circumstance, which is

probably worth relating. Perhaps, too, I may mention the thoughts which

the incident aroused in my mind. Of all the nations of whom I have any

knowledge, the Germans are the most foolish: these fair-haired giants

blindly follow their impulses and run to open ruin. True, these

impulses and delusions are in a measure honorable--for Barbarians. But

the excess, the fury with which they obey their impulses, must ruin

them, aided by their so-called virtues. "Heroism," as they term it,

they carry to the sheerest absurdity, even to contempt of death,

keeping their promises from mere obstinacy; for instance, when, in the

blind excitement of gambling, they stake their own liberty on the last

throw. They call this fidelity. Sometimes they manifest the most

diabolical craftiness, yet they often carry truthfulness to actual

self-destruction, when a neat little lie, a slight, clever manipulation

of the bald truth, or even a calm silence would surely save them. All

this is by no means rooted in a sense of duty, but in their tameless

pride, in arrogance, in defiance; and they call it honor. The key of

all their actions, their final unspoken motive is this: "Let none

think, far less be able to say, that a German does or fails to do

anything because he fears any man, or any number of men; he would

rather rush to certain death." Therefore, no matter what any one of

these stubborn fools may have set his heart upon, to go to destruction

for it is "heroic," "honorable." True, they often set their hearts on

their people, liberty, fame; but just as frequently on swilling,--it

cannot be called drinking,--on brawling, on dice-throwing. And they

pursue the heroism of swilling and gambling just as blindly as that of

battle. Anything rather than to yield! If "honor" (that is, obstinacy)

is once fixed upon anything,--wise or foolish,--then pursue it even to

destruction. Though pleasure in the game has long been exhausted,

out-drink or out-wrestle the other man; do anything but own that

strength and spirit are consumed; rather die thrice over. I can speak

thus, because I know these Germans. Many thousands of them--from nearly

every one of their numerous tribes--have I seen in war and peace, as

soldiers, prisoners, envoys, hostages, mercenaries, colonists, in the

service of the Emperor, as leaders of the army, and as magistrates. I

have long wondered how any Germans are left; for, in truth, their

virtues vie with their vices in hastening their destruction.

Of all the nations I know, the shrewdest are the Jews, if shrewdness

consists first in the art of self-preservation, and then in the

acquisition and increase of worldly goods. They are the least, as the

Germans are the most ready, to rush upon ruin through blind passion,

through noble or ignoble impetuosity and defiance. They are the most

crafty of mortals and at the same time by no means the worst. But they

are clever to a degree which makes one marvel why they did not long ago

rule all other peoples; something must be lacking there too.

Do you ask, O Cethegus, how in the camp of Belisarius before Mount

Pappua I have attained this singular view of the much-despised Hebrews?

Very simply.

They have accomplished something which I consider the most impossible.

They have not plundered; by no means, not even stolen, for they steal

almost less than the Christians; but they have actually talked many

thousand pounds of gold belonging to the Vandal booty out of the

avaricious hands of the Emperor Justinian. The Emperor Titus, after

the fall of Jerusalem, brought to Rome the treasures of the Jewish

Temple,--candlesticks, vessels, dishes, jugs, and all sorts of gold and

silver articles set with pearls and precious stones. When Genseric

pillaged Rome, he bore away the Temple treasures on his corsair ships

to Carthage. The Empress knew this, and probably it was not the least

of the reasons for which the Bishop was compelled to dream. Belisarius

wished to exhibit all the booty on his entrance into Constantinople;

but when it was unloaded at Hippo, to be taken at once, with the rest

of the treasure, to Carthage, the oldest of the Jews in Hippo went to

him and said: "Let me warn you, mighty warrior! Do not convey these

treasures to Constantinople. Listen to a tale from the lips of your

humble servant.

"The eagle stole from the sacrifice burning on the altar a piece of

meat and bore it to his eyrie. But a few glimmering coals clung to the

offering which had been consecrated to God. And these glimmering coals

set fire to the nest of the great bird of prey, and burned the young,

which were not yet able to fly, and the eagle mother. The male eagle,

trying to save the young brood, dashed into the flames and scorched his

wings. So perished miserably the strong robber that had borne to his

own abode what belonged to God. Indeed, indeed, I tell you, the capitol

of Rome fell into the hands of the foe because it contained the sacred

vessels of Jehovah; the citadel of the Vandals fell into the hands of

the foe because it concealed these treasures. Must the stronghold of

the Emperor--God bless the protector of justice--at Constantinople

become the third eyrie which is destroyed for their sake? In truth I

say unto you, thus saith the Lord: This gold, this silver, will wander

over the earth, will destroy all the cities to which the stolen

treasure is dragged, until the gold and the silver again lie in the

holy city, Jerusalem."

And, lo, Belisarius was startled.

He wrote to the Emperor Justinian the story of the old Jew, and--really

and truly--the patriarch Moses can work still greater miracles than

Saint Cyprian. Justinian, more greedy and avaricious than the whole

race of Jews put together, ordered these treasures to be taken, not to

Constantinople, but Jerusalem, where they are to be divided among the

Christian churches and the Jewish synagogues.

So the old Jew has recovered a portion of the treasures of his

people,--without a single sword-stroke,--while Romans, Vandals,

Byzantines, gained them only after fierce battles and much bloodshed.

Does the old man believe in the curse that rests upon the treasure? I

think he does. He does not lie, and it is useful for his purpose to

believe it; so he credits it easily and seriously. The German says:

"Gain by blood rather than by sweat." The Jew says: "Gain by sweat

rather than by blood, and far, far rather by money than by sweat!" It

may be said in praise of the Jews that both their faults and their

virtues vie in preserving them and increasing their wealth and their

numbers, while the Germans destroy themselves, their lives, their

possessions, and their power by boundless indolence and boundless

revelling no less than by their boundless obstinacy and their stupid

heroism of honor. (True, these Vandals in their carousing have even

forgotten their obstinacy and their love of fighting!) We hate and

despise the Jews; I think we ought to fear and--in their good qualities

strive to excel them.

* * * * *

I have read aloud my opinion of the Germans to my friend Fara, whose

thirst for honor did not impel him toward reading and writing; he heard

me quietly to the end, drained a cup of unmixed wine, stroked his long

reddish-yellow beard thoughtfully, and said:

"Little Greek! You are a shrewd little Greek! Perhaps you are not

altogether wrong. But to me my German faults are much dearer than the

virtues of all other nations."

Gradually--so we learn--all the rest of the Barbarian kingdom will be

plucked leaf by leaf, like an artichoke, without a sword-stroke, for

Justinian's wide-open mouth. Belisarius's first care, after his victory

over the land forces, was to secure the hostile fleet.

He discovered its landing-place from the prisoners, and also learned

that it was lying at anchor almost wholly without men; Zazo had taken

all his troops to his brother. A few of our triremes, sent from

Carthage, were sufficient to capture the one hundred and fifty galleys

which were occupied only by sailors; not a single spear flew.

Genseric's much-dreaded dragon-ships were towed to Carthage; they

allowed themselves to be captured without resistance, like a flock of

wild swans, which, storm-beaten, wearied, and crippled, enter an

inclosed pond; the proud birds can be grasped with the hand. One of

Belisarius's commanders obtained Sardinia; it was necessary, but amply

sufficient, to show them Zazo's head on a spear; the islanders would

not believe in the defeat of the Vandals before; now that they could

touch the head of their dreaded conqueror, they did believe it.

Corsica, too, submitted. Also populous Caesarea in Mauritania, and one

of the Pillars of Hercules; Septa, with Ebusa and the Balearic Isles.

Tripolis was besieged by Moors, who, during the battle between the

Byzantines and the Vandals, were trying to win land and people on their

own account. The city was occupied by our troops and received from the

hands of Pudentius for the Emperor.

One might think the whole Vandal nation existed in its royal family and

a few of the nobles. When Zazo and the nobles about him fell, after the

King vanished, all resistance ceased; it was like a bundle of sticks:

when the string that fastens them is cut, they all fall apart. Since

the day of Trikameron the Barbarians everywhere allow themselves to be

seized like sheep without defence. They are mainly to be found

weaponless in the Catholic basilicas, where, seeking refuge, they

embrace the altars which they have so often dishonored. The men are

just the same as the women and children.

Really, if their brothers in Italy and Spain, and their cousins, the

Franks, Alemanni, or whatever else the Barbarians in Gaul and Germany

are called, were as highly educated as these Vandal writers of Greek

and Latin poetry, the Imperator Justinianus could speedily recover the

whole West through Belisarius and Narses. But I fear the Vandals alone

have attained such a degree of culture.

CHAPTER XVIII

More news! Perhaps another war and conquest close at hand.

Am I really, O Cethegus, to be permitted speedily to seek you in your

Italy and help to free Rome by the aid of Huns and Herulians? Your

tyrants, the Ostrogoths, have made the bridge for us into this country;

it was their Sicily. Justinian's gratitude is swift-winged. By the

Emperor's command--Belisarius received it sealed, directly after our

departure from Constantinople, with the direction not to open the

papyrus until after the destruction of the Vandal kingdom--our General

has already demanded from the court of Ravenna the cession of a

considerable portion of Sicily,--Lilybaeum, the important promontory and

castle, and all that the Vandals had ever possessed in that island. For

the Vandal kingdom had now lapsed to Constantinople, so everything that

had ever belonged to that domain also fell to it. A man is not Emperor

of the Pandects for nothing.

True, it seems to me somewhat brutal to set their limitless stupidity

before the eyes of the deluded people quite so speedily. Though of

course it is the acme of statecraft to defeat the first with the help

of the second, and then, in token of gratitude, overthrow the second.

Yet it is long since it was done so openly. Belisarius is obliged to

threaten war at once, not only upon Sicily, but all Italy, Ravenna, and

Rome. The letter to the Regent Amalaswintha concludes,--I had to

compose it for Belisarius in his tent, according to the Emperor's

secret order directly after the battle of Trikameron: "If you refuse,

you must know that you will not incur merely the _danger_ of war, but

war itself, in which we shall take from you not only Lilybaeum, but

everything you possess contrary to justice; that is, all!" To-day

came the news that there had been a revolution in Ravenna. Very wicked

men, who had already wished to support the Vandals against us, do not

love Justinian (but also unfortunately do not fear him), barbaric

names,--you will be more familiar with them than I, O Cethegus!

Hildebrand, Vitigis, Teja, have seized the helm there and flatly refuse

our demand. It seems to me that there is the blast of the tuba in the

air.

But first of all we must subdue this Vandal King without a kingdom up

above there. The siege is lasting too long for the patience of

Belisarius. Hitherto all proposals for surrender have been refused,

even those on the most absurdly favorable conditions, made because

Belisarius desires to bring the war here swiftly to an end, as it seems

to me that he may be able speedily to celebrate a triumph in

Constantinople such as has not been witnessed there for centuries, and

then continue in Italy what he had begun here.

And since this singular King, who sometimes seems to be soft wax,

sometimes the hardest granite, is not to be influenced by fair words,

we will address him to-morrow with spears.

Fara hopes that hunger has so enfeebled the Vandals and Moors that they

cannot withstand a violent assault. The truth is: Fara, a German,--and

a thoroughly admirable one,--can endure everything except

long-continued thirst and inactivity. And we have very little wine

left. Poor wine too! There is nothing to do except by turns to sleep

and mount guard before the mouse-hole called Pappua. He is tired of it.

He wants to take it by force. The Herulians will fight like madmen;

that is their way. But I look at the narrow ascent in those yellow

cliffs, and have my doubts of success. I think, unless Saint Cyprian

and Tyche work in our behalf to-morrow, we shall get, not Gelimer and

the Vandals, but plenty of hard knocks.

We have had them,--the hard knocks! And they were our just due. The

Vandals and Moors up yonder vied with each other in trying which could

serve us worst, and we paid the penalty. Fara, as leader and warrior,

managed matters as well as it is possible to do in dealing with the

impossible. He divided us into three bodies: first, the Armenians, then

the Thracians, lastly, the Herulians. The Huns--whose horses can do

much, but cannot climb like goats--remained below before our camp. In

bands of two hundred strong we rushed in a long line of two men abreast

up the only accessible path. I will make the story short. The Moors

rolled rocks, the Vandals hurled spears, at us. Twenty Armenians fell

without having even seen the crest of a foeman's helmet; the others

drew back. The Thracians, despising death, took their places. They

advanced probably a hundred feet higher; by that time they had lost

thirty-five of their number, had not seen an enemy, and also turned

back. "Cowardice," cried Fara. "It is impossible," replied Arzen, the

severely wounded leader of the Armenians,--a Vandal spear with the

house-mark of the Asdings, a flying arrow, had pierced his thigh.

"I don't believe it," shouted Fara, "follow me, my Herulians."

They followed him. So did I; but very near the last of the line. For,

as the legal councillor of Belisarius, I do not consider myself under

obligation to perform any deeds of special heroism. Only when he

himself fights do I often foolishly imagine that my place is by his

side.

I have never seen such a storm. Fragments of boulders and lances

hurled by invisible hands crushed and spitted the men. But those who

were left climbed, leaped, crept higher and higher. The top of the

mountain--which neither of the two former scaling parties had

approached--was gained. The hiding-places of many of the Moors

concealed under the cliffs of the central portion were discovered, and

numbers of these lean brown fellows paid for their loyal hospitality to

the fugitives with their lives; I saw Fara himself kill three of them.

He was just ranging his breathless band, and on the point of giving the

order to rush up to the narrow gateway in the rocks that yawns in the

mountain summit, when from this gateway burst the Vandals, the King in

advance; the crown on his helmet betrayed him. I saw him very close at

hand, and never shall I forget that face. He looked like a rapturous

monk, and yet also like the hero Zazo, whom I saw fall before

Belisarius. Behind him was a youth who strongly resembled him. The

scarlet banner, I believe, was borne by a woman. Yet I am probably

mistaken; for the whole charge fell upon us with the speed and might of

a thunderbolt. The first rank of the Herulians was scattered as

completely as if it had never stood there.

"Where is the King?" cried Fara, springing forward.

"Here," rang the answer.

The next instant five of his Herulians were supporting their sorely

wounded leader. This I saw, then I fell backward. The young Vandal

behind the King had sent his spear whizzing against my firm coat of

mail; I staggered, fell, and slid like an arrow down the smooth sandy

incline, much faster and more easily than I had climbed it. When I came

to myself and rose again, Fara's faithful followers were bearing him

past me on two shields. The leader of the Armenians was leaning on his

spear.

"Do you believe it now, Fara?" he asked. "Yes," replied the German,

pressing his bleeding head. "I believe it now. My beautiful helmet," he

went on, laughing. "But better to have the helmet cleft than the skull

under it, too." When he reached the bottom of the mountain he laughed

no longer; one hundred and twenty of his two hundred Herulians lay dead

among the rocks. I think this will be the only storming of Mount

Pappua.

* * * * *

Fara's wound is healing. But he complains a great deal of headache.

* * * * *

They must be miserably starving to death on that accursed mountain.

Deserters often come down now, but only Moors. Not a single Vandal

during the whole campaign has voluntarily joined us, in spite of my

fine invitation to treason and revolt! Of the much-lauded German

virtues fidelity seems to be almost the only one which has remained to

these degenerates.

Fara gave orders that no more should be received.

"The more mouths and stomachs Gelimer has, the smaller his stock of

food will be," he said.

But now, as they will no longer be accepted as comrades in arms, the

Moors sell themselves for slaves for a bit of bread. Fara also

prohibited this sorrowful trading. He said to his men:

"Let them starve up there; you will get them all as captives of war so

much the sooner."

Yet it does the Vandals (it is said that there are not more than forty

of them) all honor that they still hold out while the Moors succumb. It

is the strongest contrast conceivable; for everything we heard in

Constantinople concerning the luxury and effeminacy of the Vandals was

surpassed by what we saw in their palaces, villas, and houses, and by

what the Carthaginians have told us. Two or three baths daily, their

tables supplied with the dainties of all lands and seas, all their

dishes of gold, nothing but Median garments, spectacles, games in the

Circus, the chase,--but with the least possible exertion,--dancers,

mimes, musicians, outdoor pleasures in beautifully kept groves of the

finest fruit-trees, daily revels, daily drinking bouts, and the most

unbridled enjoyment of every description. As the Vandals led the most

luxurious, the Moors led the most simple lives of all peoples. Winter

and summer, they are half clad in a short gray garment, and live in the

same low felt hut or leather tents, where one can scarcely breathe;

neither the snow of the high mountains nor the scorching heat of the

desert affects them; they sleep on the bare ground, only the richest

spread a camel-skin under them; they have neither bread, wine, nor any

of the better foods. Like the animals, they chew unground, even

unroasted barley, spelt, and corn.

Yet now the Vandals endure starvation without yielding, while the Moors

succumb.

It is incomprehensible! Sons of the same nation from whom, in two short

battles, we wrested Africa. To our wondering question how this can be,

all the deserters make one reply: "The holy King." He constrains them

by his eyes, his voice, by magic. But Fara says his magic cannot hold

out long against hunger and thirst. And since, as these strong Moors,

emaciated to skeletons, say that the King and his followers do not

utter a word of complaint while enduring these sufferings, Fara

thought, from genuine kindness of heart, that he would try to end this

misery. He dictated to me the following epistle: "Forgive me, O King of

the Vandals, if this letter seems to you somewhat foolish. My head was

always more fit to bear sword-strokes than to compose sentences. And

since you and my head met a short time ago, thinking has been still

more difficult than usual. I write, or rather I have these words

written, plainly, according to the Barbarian fashion. Dear Gelimer, why

do you plunge yourself and all your followers into the deepest abyss of

misery? Merely to avoid serving the Emperor? For this word, 'liberty,'

is probably your delusion. Do you not see that, for the sake of this

liberty, you are becoming under obligations of gratitude and service to

miserable Moors, that you are dependent upon these savages? Is it not

better to serve the great Emperor at Constantinople, than to rule over

a little band of starving people on Pappua? Is it disgraceful to serve

the same lord as Belisarius? Cast aside this folly, admirable Gelimer!

Think, I myself am a German, a member of a noble Herulian family. My

ancestors wore the badge of royalty of our people in the old home on

the shore of the dashing sea, near the islands of the Danes--and yet I

serve the Emperor, and am proud of it. My sword and the swift daring of

my Herulians decided the victory on the day of Belisarius's greatest

battle. I am a general, and have remained a hero, even in the Emperor's

service. The same fate will await you. Belisarius will secure you on

his word of honor life, liberty, estates in Asia Minor, the rank of a

patrician, and a leadership in the army directly under him. Dear

Gelimer, noble King, I mean kindly by you. Defiance is beautiful, but

folly is--foolish. Make an end of it!"

* * * * *

The messenger has returned. He saw the King himself. He says the sight

of him was almost enough to startle one to death. He looks like a ghost

or the King of Shades; gloomy eyes burn from a spectral face. Yet when

the unyielding hero read the well-meant consolation of his kind-hearted

fellow-countryman, he wept. The very man who struck down the

unconquerable Fara and endures superhuman privations wept like a boy or

a woman. Here is the Vandal's answer:--

"I thank you for your counsel. I cannot follow it. You have given up

your people; therefore you are drifting on the sea of the world like a

blade of straw. I was, I am King of the Vandals. I will not serve the

unjust foe of my people. God, so I believe, commands me and the remnant

of the Vandals to hold out even now. He can save me if He so wills. I

can write no more. The misery surrounding me benumbs my thoughts. Good

Fara, send me a loaf of bread; a delicate boy, the son of a dead noble,

is lying very ill, in the fever caused by starvation. He begs, he

pleads, he shrieks for bread--it tears one's heart-strings! For a long

time not one of us has tasted bread.

"And a sponge dipped in water; my eyes, inflamed by watching and

weeping, burn painfully.

"And a harp. I have composed a dirge upon our fate, which I would fain

sing to the accompaniment of the harp."

Fara granted the three requests,--the harp could be obtained only by

sending to the nearest city,--but he guards even more closely than

before the "Mountain of Misery," as our people call it.

CHAPTER XIX

Dull, misty, and gray, a cold damp morning in early March dawned upon

the mountain. The sun could not penetrate the dense clouds.

The ancient city of Medenus had long since been abandoned by its

Carthaginian and Roman founders and builders. Most of the houses,

constructed of stone from the mountain, stood deserted and ruinous.

Nomad Moors used the few which still had roofs as places of refuge in

winter. The largest structure was the former basilica. Here the King

and his household had found shelter. A scanty fire of straw and fagots

was burning in the centre on the stone floor. But it sent forth more

smoke than heat, for the wood was wet, and the damp fog penetrated

everywhere through the cracks in the walls, through the holes in the

roof, pressing down the slowly rising yellowish-gray smoke till,

trailing and gliding along the cold wall, it sought other means of

escape through the entrance, whose folding-doors were missing. In the

semicircular space back of the apses coverlets and skins had been

spread upon the marble floor. Here sat Gibamund, hammering upon his

much-dented shield, while Hilda had laid the scarlet standard across

her lap, and was mending it.

"Many, many arrows have pierced thee, ancient, storm-tried banner. And

this gaping rent here,--it was probably a sword-stroke. But thou must

still hold together to the end."

"The end," said Gibamund, impatiently completing the nailing of the

edge of the shield with one last blow of the hammer. "I wish it would

come. I can bear to witness the suffering--_your_ suffering--no longer.

I have constantly urged the King to put an end to it. Let us, let all

the Vandals,--the Moors can surrender as prisoners,--charge upon the

foe together, and--He would never let me finish. 'That would be

suicide,' he answered, 'and sin. We must bear patiently what God has

imposed upon us as a punishment. If it is His will. He can yet save us,

bear us away from here on the wings of His angels. But the end is

approaching--of itself. The number of graves on the slope of the

mountain is daily increasing.'"

"Yes, the row constantly lengthens; sometimes the high mounds of our

Vandals surmounted by the cross!"

"Sometimes the faithful Moors' heap of stones with the circle of black

pebbles. Yesterday evening we buried the delicate Gundoric; the last

scion of the proud Gundings, the darling of his brave father Gundobad."

"So the poor boy's sufferings are over? In Carthage the child was

always clad in purple silk as he rode through the streets in a shell

carriage drawn by ostriches."

"Day before yesterday the King brought to the miserable heap of straw

where he was lying the fragrant bread he had begged from the enemy. The

child devoured it so eagerly that we were obliged to check him. We

turned our backs a moment,--I was getting some water with the King for

the sick boy,--when a cry of mingled rage and grief summoned us. A

Moorish lad, probably attracted by the smell of the bread, had sprung

in through the open window and torn it from between the child's teeth.

It made a very deep impression on the King. 'This child, too, the

guiltless one? O terrible God!' he cried again and again. I closed the

boy's dying eyes to-day."

"It cannot last much longer. The people have killed the last horse

except Styx."

"Styx shall not be slaughtered," cried Hilda. "He bore you from certain

death; he saved you."

"_You_ saved me, with your Valkyria ride," exclaimed Gibamund; and,

happy in the midst of all the wretchedness, he pressed his beautiful

wife to his heart, kissing her golden hair, her eyes, her noble brow.

"Hark! what is that?"

"It is the song which he has composed and is singing to the harp Fara

sent him. Well for thee, Teja's stringed instrument, that thou art not

compelled to accompany such a dirge," she cried wrathfully, springing

up and tossing back her waving locks. "I would rather have shattered my

harp on the nearest rocks than lent it for such a song."

"But it works like a spell upon the Moors and Vandals."

"They do not understand it at all; the words are Latin. He has rejected

alliteration as pagan, as the magic of runes! He allows no one to

mention his last battle-song."

"Of course they scarcely understand it. But when they see the King as,

almost in an ecstasy, like a man walking in his sleep, with his burning

eyes half closed, his wan, sorrowful face surrounded by tangled locks,

his ragged royal mantle thrown around his shoulders, his harp on his

arm, he wanders alone over the rocks and snows of this mountain; when

they hear the deep, wailing voice, the mournful melody of the dirge, it

affects them like a spell, though they understand little of the

meaning. Hark! there it rises again."

Nearer and nearer, partly borne away by the wind, came in broken words,

sometimes accompanied by the strings, the chant:

"Woe to thee! I mourn, I mourn!

Woe to thee, O Vandal race!

Soon forgot, will be thy name,

Which the world, a tempest, swept.

"Gloriously didst thou arise

From the sea,--a meteor.

Fame and radiance lost for aye,

Thou wilt sink in blackest night.

"All the earth's rich treasures heaped

Genseric in Carthage fair.

Starving beggar with the foe,

Now for bread his grandson pleads.

"Let thy heroes strengthen me;

God's wrath on thee resteth sore;

Leave fame and honor to the Goths,

To the Franks:--they are but toys."

"I will not listen; I will not bear it," cried Hilda. "He shall not

revile all that makes life worth living."

Nearer, more distinctly, sounded the slow, mournful notes.

"Vanity and sin are all

Thou hast cherished, Vandal race;

Therefore God hath stricken thee,

Therefore bowed thy head in shame.

"Bow thee, bow thee to the dust,

Bruised race of Genseric;

Kiss the rod in gratitude.

It is God the Lord Who smites."

The dirge died away. The royal singer ascended with tottering steps the

half-ruined stairs of the basilica, his harp hanging loosely from his

left arm. Now he stood between the gray, mouldering pillars of the

entrance, and, laying his right arm against the cold stone, pressed his

weary head upon it.

Just at that moment a young Moor came hurrying up the steps; a few

bounds brought him to the top. Gibamund and Hilda went toward him in

astonishment.

"It is long since I have seen you move so swiftly, Sersaon," said

Gibamund.

"Your eyes are sparkling," cried Hilda. "You bring good tidings."

The King raised his head from the pillar and, shaking it sorrowfully,

looked at the Moor.

"Yes, wise Queen," replied the latter. "The best of tidings: Rescue!"

"Impossible!" said Gelimer, in a hollow tone.

"It is true, my master. Here, Verus will confirm it."

With a slow step, but unbroken strength, the priest ascended the

mountain-top. He seemed rather to be prouder, more powerful than in the

days of happiness; he held his head haughtily erect. In his hand he

carried an arrow and a strip of papyrus.

"To-night," the young Moor went on, "I had the watch at our farthest

point toward the south. At the earliest glimmer of dawn, I heard the

call of the ostrich: I thought it a delusion, for the bird never

ascends to such a height, and this is not the mating season. But this

call is our concerted signal with our allies among the Southern tribes,

the Soloes. I listened, I watched keenly; yes, yonder, pressing close

against the yellowish-brown cliff, so motionless that he could scarcely

be distinguished from the rock, crouched a Soloe. I softly answered the

call; instantly an arrow flew to the earth close beside me,--a headless

arrow, into whose hollow shaft, instead of the tip, this strip had been

forced. I drew it out; I cannot read, but I took it to the nearest

Vandals. Two of them read it and rejoiced greatly. Verus happened to

pass by; he wanted to tear the papyrus, wished to forbid our speaking

of it to you, but hunger, the hope of rescue, are stronger than his

words--"

"I thought it treachery, a snare; it is too improbable," interrupted

Verus.

Gibamund snatched the strip and read: "The path descending southward,

where the ostrich called, is unguarded; it is supposed to be

impassable. Climb down singly to-morrow at midnight; we will wait close

by with fresh horses. Theudis, King of the Visigoths, has sent us gold

to save you, and a little ship. It is lying near the coast. Hasten."

"There is still fidelity. There are still friends in need!" cried

Hilda, exultingly, throwing herself with tears of joy, on her husband's

breast.

The King's bowed figure straightened; his eyes lost their dull,

hopeless expression.

"Now you see how wicked it would have been to seek death. This is the

finger which God's mercy extends to us. Let us grasp it."

CHAPTER XX

Verus, in order to make the enemy wholly unsuspicious, offered to

propose to Fara an interview with Gelimer at noon the following day, on

the northern slope of the mountain, in which the last offers of

Belisarius should be again discussed. After some scruples of

conscience, the King consented to this stratagem of war. Verus reported

that Fara was very much pleased with his communication, and would await

Gelimer on the following day. Nevertheless, the besieged band

kept a sharp watch upon the besiegers' outposts and camp--the high

mountain-top afforded a foil view of their position--to note any

movement in the direction of the descent which might indicate the

discovery of the intended flight or the Soloe hiding-place at the foot

of the mountain. Nothing of the sort was apparent; the foemen below

spent the day in the usual manner. The guards were not strengthened,

and after darkness closed in, the watchfires were neither increased nor

changed. At nightfall the besiegers also lighted their fires on the

northern side in the same places as before.

Shortly before midnight the little procession began its march. The

Moors, who were familiar with the way, went first provided with ropes

and iron braces. At every step the fugitives were obliged to feel their

way cautiously with the handles of their spears, testing the smooth,

crumbling surface of the rock to try whether it would afford a firm

foothold. Next followed Gibamund and Hilda; the Princess had folded

Genseric's great banner closely and tied it about the pole, which she

used as a staff; then came Gelimer, behind him Verus and the small

remaining band of Vandals. So they moved for about half an hour along

the summit of the mountain, until they reached the southern side, down

which the narrow path led. Each step was perilous to life; for they

dared not light torches.

As the little group began the descent, Gelimer turned. "Oh, Verus," he

whispered, "death may be very near to us all. Repeat a prayer--where is

Verus?"

"He hastened back some time ago," replied Markomer. "He wished to bring

a relic he had forgot. He bade us go on, saying that he would overtake

us at the next turn in the road before we descended the ravine."

The King hesitated, and began to murmur the Lord's Prayer.

"Forward!" whispered Sersaon, the leading Moor. "There is no more time

to lose. We need only pass quickly around the next projecting rock--Ha!

Torches, treason! Back to--"

He could say no more; an arrow transfixed his throat. Torches glared

with a dazzling light into the eyes of the fugitives just as they

turned the jutting cliff. Weapons flashed, and before the ranks of the

Herulians stood a man holding aloft a torch to light the group.

"There, the second one is the King," he cried. "Capture him alive." He

took a step forward.

"Verus!" shrieked Gelimer, falling back unconscious. Two Vandals caught

him and bore him up the height.

"On! Storm the mountain!" Fara ordered below. But it was impossible to

storm a height which could be climbed only by clinging with both hands

to the perpendicular cliff. Fara himself instantly perceived it when,

by the torchlight, he beheld the path and saw Gibamund standing with

levelled spear on the last broader ledge of rock which afforded a firm

footing.

"It is a pity!" he shouted. "But now this loophole will henceforth be

barred also. Surrender!"

"Never!" cried Gibamund, hurling his spear. The man by Fara's side

fell.

"Shoot! Quickly! All at once!" the Herulian leader angrily commanded.

Behind the Herulians were twenty archers, dismounted Huns. Their bows

twanged; Gibamund sank silently backward. Hilda, with a cry of anguish,

caught him in her arms.

But Markomer, raising his lance threateningly, already stood in the

place of the fallen man.

"Cease," Fara ordered. "But keep the outlet strongly guarded. The

priest said that they must yield either to-morrow or on the following

day."

* * * * *

Gelimer was roused from his unconsciousness by Hilda's shriek.

"Now Gibamund, too, has fallen," he said very calmly. "All is over."

Supported by his spear, he climbed wearily back. A few Vandals followed

him. He vanished in the darkness of the night.

Hilda sat silent with the head of her lifeless husband in her lap, and

the staff of the banner resting on her shoulder. She had no tears, but

groped in the thick gloom for the beloved face. At last she heard a

Vandal, returning from the King, say to Markomer:

"This was the final blow. To-morrow--I am to announce it to the

enemy--Gelimer will submit."

Now she sprang up, and asking two of the men to help her--she would not

release the dear head from her clasping hands--carried the dead Prince

to the top of the mountain. In a little grove of pines, just outside

the city, a small wooden hut had been built which had formerly

contained stores of every kind. Now it was half empty except for a

large pile of the wood used for fires. In this hut she spent the night

and the dark morning alone with the dead. When it grew light she

sought the King, whom she found in the basilica on the spot where

formerly--the remains of some steps showed it--the altar had stood.

Here Gelimer had placed in a crack between two stones a wooden cross,

roughly made of boughs laid across each other. He lay prone on his face

before it, clasping the cross with both arms.

"Brother-in-law Gelimer," she said in a curt, harsh tone, "is it true?

Do you mean to surrender?"

He made no reply.

She shook him by the shoulder.

"King of the Vandals, do you mean to give yourself up as a captive?"

she cried more loudly. "They will lead you through the streets of

Constantinople as a spectacle! Will you shame your people--your _dead_

people--still more?"

"Vanity," he answered dully. "Vanity speaks from your lips! All that

you are thinking is sinful, vain, arrogant."

"Why do you do this so suddenly? You have held out for months."

"Verus!" groaned the King. "God has abandoned me; my guardian spirit

has betrayed me. I am condemned on earth, and in the world beyond the

grave. I can do nothing else!"

"Yes. Here, Gelimer, here is your sharp sword."

Stooping, she tore it from the sheath which lay with the sword-belt at

the foot of the steps.

"'The dead are free' is a good motto."

But Gelimer shook his head.

"Vanity. Pride of heart. Pagan sin. I am a Christian. I will not kill

myself. I will bear my cross--as Christ bore His--until I sink beneath

it."

Hilda flung the sword clanking at his feet and turned from him without

a word.

"Where are you going? What do you mean to do?"

"Do you suppose I loved less truly and deeply and fervently than that

delicate Greek child? I come, my hero and my husband."

She walked across to a building now turned into a stable, the former

curia of Medenus, where, a short time before, many horses had stamped.

Only Styx, the stallion, now stood in it. Hilda grasped his mane, and

the wise, faithful animal followed like a lamb. The Princess went with

the horse to the hut. It hung back a moment before following her into

the narrow inclosure, which was dimly lighted by a pine torch in an

iron ring by the door.

"Come in," Hilda said coaxingly, drawing the horse gently after her.

"It will be better for you too. You will perish miserably. Your beauty

and your strength have gone. And after serving love in that brave ride

through the battle, the enemy shall not seize you and torment you with

base labor. What says the ancient song:

"Heaped high for the hero

Log on log laid they:

Slain, his swift steed

Shared the warrior's death.

And, gladly, his wife,

Nay, alas! his widow.

Burden of life's weary

Days sad and desolate

Would she, the faithful,

Bear on no farther."

She led the stallion to the side of the lofty pile of wood, where she

had laid the beautiful corpse, drew Gibamund's sword from its sheath,

and, searching with her hand for the throbbing of the heart, thrust the

blade into it with one powerful blow. Styx fell lifeless. Hilda threw

down the blood-stained weapon.

"Oh, my love!" she cried. "Oh, my husband, my life! Why did I never

tell you how I loved you? Alas! because I did not know myself--until

now! Hear it, oh, hear it, Gibamund, I loved you very dearly. I thank

you. Friend Teja! Oh, my all, I follow you."

And now she drew from her girdle the keen black dagger. Severing with

one cut the long floating banner from its staff, she spread it over the

corpse like a pall. It was so wide that it covered the whole space

beside the body. Then, with the blazing torch, she lighted the lowest

wood, bent over the dead Prince, again kissed the pale lips fervently,

and seizing the dark weapon, which flashed brightly in the light of the

flames, buried it in her brave, proud heart.

She fell forward on her face over her beloved husband, and the fire,

crackling and burning, seized first the scarlet banner which enfolded

the young pair.

The morning breeze blew strongly through the half-open door and the

chinks between the logs--and the bright flames soon blazed high above

the roof.

CHAPTER XXI

PROCOPIUS TO CETHEGUS:

It is over! Thank God, or whoever else may be entitled to our

gratitude. Three months, full of utter weariness, we remained encamped

before the mountain of defiance. It is March; the nights are still

cool, but at noonday the sun already burns with scorching heat. An

attempted flight was baffled by treachery; Verus, Gelimer's chancellor

and closest friend, deserves the credit of this base deed. Obeying the

priest's directions we sought the Soloes concealed on the southern

slope who were to accompany the fugitives to the sea, but found only

the prints of numerous hoofs. We blocked the outlet. Then the King

voluntarily, without any farther trouble, offered to surrender. Fara

was greatly delighted; he would have granted any condition that enabled

him to deliver the King a captive to Belisarius, who was even more

impatient for the end of the war than we. At the entrance of the

ravine, which we had never been able to penetrate, I received the

little band of Vandals--about twenty were left. The Moors, too, came

down; at Gelimer's earnest entreaty, Fara immediately set them at

liberty. These Vandals--what images of misery, famine, privation,

sickness, suffering! I do not understand how they could still hold out,

still offer resistance. They could scarcely carry their arms, and

willingly allowed us to take them.

But when I saw and talked with Gelimer--crushed though he is now--I

realized that this man's mind and will could control, rule, support

others as long as he desired. I have never seen any human being like

him,--a monk, an enthusiast, and yet a royal hero.

I entreated Fara to let me shelter him in my tent. While we could

scarcely restrain the others from immoderately greedy indulgence in

meats and other foods of which they had long been deprived, he

voluntarily continued the fast so long forced upon him. Fara with

difficulty induced him to drink some wine; the Herulian probably feared

that his prisoner would die on the way, before he could deliver him to

Belisarius. For a long time he refused; but when I suggested that he

was probably seeking death in this way, he at once drank the wine and

ate some bread.

Long and fully, for nearly half the night, he talked with me, full of

gentle submission, concerning his destiny. It is touching, impressive,

to hear him attribute everything to the providence of God. But I cannot

always follow his train of thought. For instance, I remarked that,

after holding out so long, the baffled attempt to escape had probably

caused the sudden resolution to surrender. He smiled sadly and replied:

"Oh, no. Had our flight been frustrated by any other reason, I would

have held out unto death. But Verus, Verus!" He was silent, then he

added: "You will not understand it. But now I know that God has

abandoned me, if He was ever with me. Now I know this, too, was sin,

was hollow vanity, that I loved my people so ardently that from pride

in the Asding blood, in our ancient warlike fame, I would not yield,

would not surrender. We must love God alone, and live only for Heaven!"

Just at that moment Fara broke into the tent somewhat rudely.

"You have, not kept your promise. King!" he cried wrathfully. "You

agreed to deliver up all the weapons and field flags, but the most

important prize,--Belisarius specially urged me to look to it, for he

saw it rescued from the battle, and I myself noticed it in a woman's

hand a short time ago, when we made the attack,--King Genseric's great

banner, is missing. Our people, I myself, guided by Vandals, have

searched everywhere on the mountain; we found nothing except, among the

ashes of a burned hut, with some bones, these gold nails,--the Vandals

say they belonged to the pole of the banner. Did you burn it?"

"Oh, no, my Lord, I should not have grudged you and Belisarius the

bauble; a woman did it Hilda. She killed herself. O God, I beseech Thee

for her: forgive her!" And this is not hypocrisy. I hardly understand

it. Yet these strange events force upon me thoughts which usually I

would willingly avoid. Whoever has once meddled with philosophy--I shun

it, but carry it ever in my brain--will never again escape the

questioning concerning the Why?

Lucky accidents have always happened in the destinies of men;

but whether any enterprise has ever been attended with such good

fortune as ours is doubtful. Belisarius himself marvels. Five

thousand horsemen,--for our foot-soldiers scarcely entered the

battle,--strangers who, after they were put on shore, had no refuge,

no citadel, possessed no spot of ground in all Africa except the

soil on which they stood, did not know where they were to lay their

heads,--five thousand horsemen, in two short conflicts, against ten

times their number, destroyed the kingdom of the terrible Genseric,

took his grandson prisoner, seized his royal citadel and royal

treasures! It is incomprehensible. If I had not witnessed it myself, I

would not have believed it. After all, is there a God dwelling in the

clouds who wonderfully guides the destinies of men?

Belisarius's generalship, and our brave, battle-trained army did much;

something, though not a large share, was accomplished, as now appears,

by Verus's long-planned treachery, carried out to the end. Without our

knowledge, he has corresponded all this time with the Emperor, and

especially with the Empress. The most was due to the degeneracy of the

people, except the royal House, which lost three men in the struggle.

The incomprehensible, contradictory nature of this King also

contributed to the destruction. Yet all these things would not have

produced the result so speedily, but for the unexampled good fortune

which has attended us from the beginning.

And this luck--is it blind? Is it the work of God, Who desired to

punish the Vandals for the sins of their forefathers and for their

own? It may be so. And not without reverence do I bow to such a rule.

But--and here again the mocking doubt which never entirely deserts me,

again rises in my mind--then we must say that God is not fastidious in

His choice of tools, for this Gelimer and his brothers are hardly

surpassed in virtue by Theodora, Justinian, Belisarius himself;

perhaps, O Cethegus, not even by the friend who has written you these

lines.

CHAPTER XXII

The day after Gelimer's surrender Fara's camp was broken up and the

train of victors and captives began the march to Carthage. Couriers

were despatched in advance to Belisarius.

At the head rode Fara, Procopius, and the other leaders on horses and

camels; in the centre were led the captive Vandals, bound, for the sake

of precaution, hand and foot with chains which permitted walking and

even riding, but not running, and surrounded by foot-soldiers; the Hun

cavalry formed the rear. So, resting at night in tents, they slowly

traversed in fourteen days the road over which, in their swift pursuit,

they had gone in eight.

Verus usually rode alone; he avoided the Vandals, and the Byzantines

shunned _him_.

On the second day after the departure from Mount Pappua,--Fara and

Procopius were far in advance,--at a turn in the road, the priest

checked his horse and waited. The prisoners approached. Many a fettered

hand was raised against him, many a curse was called down on his head;

he neither saw nor heard. At last, holding in his manacled right hand a

staff that extended into a cross, Gelimer tottered forward on foot.

Verus urged his horse through the ranks of the guards, and now rode

close beside him; the prisoner looked up.

"You, Verus!"

He shuddered.

"Yes, I, Verus. I waited for you here--you and this hour,--this hour

which at last has come, slowly, lingeringly; this hour for which I have

wished, longed, labored by prayer, by counsel and action, for which

alone I have lived, suffered, struggled during years and tens of

years."

"And why, O Verus, why? What injury have I done you?"

Verus uttered a shrill laugh, and reined in his horse, stopping

suddenly.

Gelimer started. He had rarely seen this man smile, never had he heard

him laugh aloud.

"Why? Ha! ha! You can still ask? Why? Because--But to answer this

question I should have to repeat the whole story of our--the Romans',

the Catholics'--sufferings from the first step which Genseric took upon

this soil. Why? Because I am the avenger, the requiter of the hundred

years of crime called 'the Vandal kingdom in Africa.' Hear it, ye

saints in Heaven! This man--he was present when all my kindred were

horribly murdered, and he asks why I have hated and, so far as I had

power, destroyed him and his people?"

"I know--"

"You know nothing! For you can ask me: _Why_? You know, you mean, of my

dying mother's curse. But this you do not know--for you had fallen

senseless,--that when she hurled the curse at you I wrenched myself

free from my ropes, from my martyr's stake, sprang to her into the

midst of the flames, clasped her in my arms, and wished to die with

her. But she thrust me back out of the fire, crying: 'Live, live and

avenge me--and all your kindred--and fulfil the curse upon that Vandal

and all his people!' Again I pressed forward, clasped the dying woman's

hand, and swore it. Your warriors tore me away from her; I saw her fall

back into the flames, and my senses failed.

"But when I recovered consciousness, I was no longer a boy--I

was the avenger! I saw, heard, and felt nothing but that last

clasp of my mother's hand, her glance, and my vow. And I abjured my

religion--apparently. And you, miserable Barbarians, made stupid by

arrogance, you believed that I had done this from cowardice, from fear

of torture and the flames! Oh, how often in former years I have felt

your silent, scarcely-concealed contempt, you foolish simpleton, and

borne it with mortal hatred, with a fury which burned my heart.

Arrogant brood of vain fools! Cowardice, fear, to you the most infamous

of insults, you attributed to me without hesitation. Blind fools! As if

I did not suffer more, ten times more than death in the flames, during

all these years, while ruling myself, enduring without a word of

explanation the scorn of the Carthaginians, the Catholics, for my

apostasy; stifling every emotion of hate and wrath and hope in my

heart, that you might not perceive them, wearing an outward semblance

of stone, while my whole soul was seething with fury, to serve you, to

conduct your blasphemous service of God as your priest, bearing your

insufferable boasting! For you Germans, without boasting aloud (your

loud braggart is easily endured, we despise him), are silent boasters.

You walk over the earth as if you must constantly crush something; you

throw back your heads as if you were greeting and nodding to your

ancestors in heaven: 'Yes, yes, the world belongs to us!' And that you

do not know and feel it, while you are insulting us mortally by such

conduct, because it is a matter of course--is the most unbearable thing

about it. Oh, how I hate you!" He struck with his whip at the figure

walking by his side, who received the blow, but did not seem to feel

it. "You Barbarians, who, a few generations ago, were cattle-thieves on

the frontier of our empire, whom we slaughtered, enslaved, threw

to the beasts by hundreds of thousands,--naked, starving beggars

who gratefully picked up the crumbs flung to them by Roman

generosity,--hence with you all, all, you wolves, you bulls, you bears,

whom only bestial strength and God's permission--as a punishment for

our sins--allowed to break into the Roman Empire! Hence with you!" He

again raised his whip to strike, but seeing a Herulian warrior's eye

fixed threateningly upon him, he lowered his arm in embarrassment.

Gelimer remained silent, except for frequent sighs.

"And your conscience?" he now said very gently. "Has it never rebuked

you? I since escaping the lion--I have trusted you entirely, I laid my

heart in your hands, you became my confessor; did you feel no shame

then?"

A scarlet flush dyed the priest's pallid face for an instant, but it

passed like a flash of lightning. The next moment he answered:

"Yes! So foolish was my heart--often. Especially at first. But," he

went on wrathfully, "I always conquered this weakness by saying to

myself whenever I felt it, and your insulting arrogance made me feel it

daily (oh, that Zazo! I hated him most of all): They deem you so base

that, in the presence of the dead bodies of all your kindred, you

abjured your faith! These insolent, incredibly stupid Barbarians--but

it is arrogance, even more than stupidity--believe that you, you, the

son of these parents, could really be devoted to them, could forget

your martyrs, to serve them and their brutal, imperious splendor. They

think that you can be so inconceivably base! Avenge yourself, punish

them for this unbearable presumption! Oh, hate, too, is a joy, the

hatred of nation for nation! And so long as a drop of blood flows in

the veins of other nations, you Germans must be hated, unto death,

until you are trampled under foot."

He dealt a heavy blow with his clenched fist upon the uncovered head of

the tottering King. Gelimer did not look up, did not even start.

"What threat are you muttering in your beard?" asked Verus, bending

toward him.

"I was only praying, 'As we forgive our debtors.' But perhaps that,

too, is vanity, sin. Perhaps--you are not my debtor. Perhaps you are

really," again he shuddered, "my angel, whom God sends, not to protect

me, as I supposed in my vanity, but in punishment."

"I was not your _good_ angel," laughed the other.

"But--if I may ask--?"

"Ask on! I want to enjoy this hour to the utmost."

"If you hated me so bitterly, desired to avenge your mother on me,

why did you carry on this game for so many long years? Often and

often,--when I lay helpless in the lion's power, you might have killed

me, so why--?"

"A stupid question! Have you not understood even yet? Fool! True, I

hated you, but even more--your nation. To kill you had its charm. And I

struggled sorely with my hate at that time, in order not to kill you

instead of the lion."

"I saw that."

"But I perceived: here, in this man, lives the soul of the Vandal

people. To raise him to the throne, and then rule him, is to rule his

people. If I should kill him now, I should drive Hilderic to a secret

treaty with Constantinople. Zazo, Gibamund, others, will resist long

and bravely. But if this man, who, above all, could save his people,

should become king, and then, as king, be in my power, his countrymen

will be most surely lost. If it should become necessary to kill him, an

opportunity can probably always be found. Far better than to murder him

is through him to rule--and ruin--the Vandal nation!"

Then Gelimer groaned aloud and, staggering, involuntarily caught at the

horse's neck for support. Verus thrust his hand aside; he stumbled and

fell on the sand, but instantly rose and pursued his way.

"Did the priest strike you. King?" cried the Herulian, threateningly.

"No, my friend."

But Verus went on:

"Hilderic must be removed from the throne, for he would not implicitly

obey my will. He demanded all sorts of indulgences for the Vandals, and

Justinianus was ready to grant them. But I desired not only to make

Gelimer and his Vandals subjects of the Emperor,--I wanted to destroy

them. Your rough brother discovered my intercourse with Pudentius; if I

had been searched at that time, if Pudentius's letter had been found,

all would have been lost. Instead, I gave it to him; I betrayed his

hiding-place, but I knew he was already outside the walls, mounted on

my best racer.

"The King and you both entered the trap of my warnings. I rejoiced at

your readiness to believe in Hilderic's guilt, because you--desired it;

because with secret, though repressed eagerness, you longed for the

crown. Even though you dethroned Hilderic in good faith, how alert, how

ardent you were to secure the throne! I aided, I saw you strike down

poor Hoamer, who was perfectly right when he denied Hilderic's purpose

of murder. You called the duel a judgment of God, you believed you

thereby served Heaven's justice, and you served only your own lust for

power and, through it, _me_! Your passion--stimulated by Satan, not

God--gave you the impulse, the swift strength of arm, to which Hoamer

instantly succumbed. It was a devil's judgment, a victory of hell, not

a decree of God. Now I became your chancellor; that is, your destroyer.

I quarrelled openly with the Emperor; I negotiated secretly with the

Empress. I sent your fleet to Sardinia, after learning the day before

that Belisarius had set sail with his army. After the battle of

Decimum, I advised you to shut yourself with your troops in Carthage.

The game would then have been over six months earlier, but this one

move failed,--you would not accept my counsel. I was obliged to guard

against Hilderic's vindicating himself, so I took out of the chest

before I let Hilderic search it, the warning letter, which I had

dictated. But I could permit no scion of Genseric's race to live:

Justinian would have received your two captives with honors after the

victory of Belisarius! I had them killed by my freedman and secured his

escape. But you--I had long reserved it for the hour of your greatest

supremacy, in case of the most extreme peril of our plans--you I

crushed at the right moment by the revelation that you had dethroned

Hilderic without cause and then murdered him. But my mother's curse and

my oath would not be fulfilled until you walked in chains as

Justinian's captive.

"Therefore, to prevent your escape, I shared all the suffering, all the

privations, of these last three months. Letters from King Theudis,

directly after the battle of Decimum, had offered you rescue through

the coast tribes by the galleys of the Visigoths. You never saw those

letters; I suppressed them. Not until deliverance really beckoned, when

you already stretched your hand toward it, did I strip off the mask to

destroy you utterly. Now I shall see you kiss Justinian's feet in the

hippodrome at Constantinople; this is the final consummation of my

mother's curse, my oath, and my people's vengeance."

He ceased, his face glowing, his eyes flashing down at the prisoner.

Gelimer stooped and kissed the shoe in Verus's stirrup.

"I thank you. So you are God's rod which struck and felled me. I thank

God and you for every blow, as I thanked God and you when I believed

you to be my guardian spirit. And if, meanwhile, you have committed any

sin against me, against my people,--I know not how to express it,--may

God forgive you, as I do."

CHAPTER XXIII

PROCOPIUS TO CETHEGUS:

HE went all the way to Carthage on foot, declining horse or camel,

remaining silent or praying aloud in Latin, no longer in the Vandal

language. Fara offered him suitable garments instead of the worn,

half-tattered purple mantle which he had on his bare body. The captive

declined, and asked for a penitent's girdle, with sharp points on the

inside, such as the hermits wear in the desert. We did not know how to

obtain such crazy gear, and Fara probably disapproved the wish, so the

"Tyrant" himself made one from a cast-off horse-bridle which he found

and the hard, sharp thorns of the desert acacia. Close to the gate of

his capital, his strength failed, and he fell, face downward, in the

road. Verus stopped behind him, hesitating. I believe he meant to set

his foot on the King's neck; but Fara, who probably had the same

suspicion, roughly pushed the priest forward, and raised the monarch

with kind words. Directly beyond the Numidian gate, in the spacious

square in the Aklas suburb, Belisarius had assembled the larger portion

of his army, filling three sides; the fourth, facing the gate, remained

open. Opposite the entrance, on a raised seat, the General, in full

armor, sat throned; above his head rose the imperial field standards;

at his feet lay the scarlet flags and pennons of the Vandals which we

had captured by the dozen; every thousand had them. Only the great

royal banner was missing; it was never found. Around Belisarius stood

the leaders of his victorious bands, with many bishops and priests,

then the Senators, aristocratic citizens of Carthage and the other

cities, some of whom had returned from exile or flight during the past

few months; Pudentius of Tripolis and his son were among them,

rejoicing. To the left of Belisarius, on purple coverlets at his feet,

lay heaped and poured in artistic confusion the royal treasure of the

Vandals: many chairs of solid gold, the chariot of the Vandal Queen, a

countless multitude of treasures of every description,--how the jewels

glittered under the radiant African sun,--the whole silver table

service of the King, weighing many thousand pounds, and all the rest of

the paraphernalia of the royal household, besides weapons, countless

weapons from Genseric's armories; old Roman banners, too, which, after

a captivity of years, were again released; weapons enough in the hands

of brave men to conquer the whole globe; Roman helmets with proudly

curved crests, German boar and buffalo helmets, Moorish shields covered

with panther skins, Moorish fillets with waving ostrich plumes,

breastplates of crocodile skin,--who can enumerate the motley variety?

But at the right of Belisarius, with their hands bound behind their

backs, stood the prisoners of the highest rank, men, and also many

women, beautiful in face and figure,--the whole picture, however, was

inclosed, as though in an iron frame, by our squadrons of horsemen and

the dense ranks of our foot-soldiers. How the horses neighed; how the

plumes in the helmets waved; how the metal clanked and glittered with

dazzling brightness! A magnificent spectacle which must fill with

rapture the heart of every man who did not view it as a captive. Behind

our warriors crowded eagerly the populace of Carthage, taught by many a

blow with the handle of a spear that it had nothing to say, and bore no

part in this celebration of its own and Africa's deliverance.

Our little procession stopped within the vaulted gateway, awaiting a

preconcerted signal. A tuba blared; Fara and I, followed by some

subordinate officers and thirty Herulians, rode into the square to

Belisarius's throne. He commanded us to dismount, rose, embraced and

kissed Fara, and hung around his neck a large gold disk,--the prize of

victory for bringing as prisoner a crowned King. Then he pressed my

hand and asked me to accompany him in all future campaigns. This is the

highest reward I could receive, for I love this man who has the courage

of a lion and the heart of a boy!

At a signal we took our places on the right and left of the throne. Two

blasts of the tuba. Clad in the richest vestments of the Catholic

priesthood,--I noticed that even the narrow Arian tonsure had been

changed to the broader Catholic one,--Verus came from the gateway into

the square, his figure drawn up to its full height, his head thrown

back proudly. He was evidently thinking: "But for me you would not be

here, you arrogant soldiers." Yet that is by no means true; we really

should have conquered without him, though more slowly, with more

difficulty. And in the degree to which it was correct--just so far it

irritated my friend Belisarius. His brow contracted, and he scanned the

approaching priest with a look of contempt which the latter could not

endure. When he bowed he lowered his lashes--arrogantly enough. "I have

a letter from the Emperor to read to you, priest," said Belisarius. He

extended his hand for a purple papyrus roll, kissed it, and began:

"Imperator Caesar, Flavius Justinianus, the devout, fortunate, glorious

victor and triumphator, at all times Augustus, conqueror of the

Alemanni, Franks, Germans, Antae, Alani, Persians, now also the Vandals,

Moors, and Africa, to Verus the Archdeacon.

"'You have preferred, instead of dealing with me, to conduct a secret

correspondence with the Empress, my hallowed consort, concerning the

fall of the Tyrant to be consummated, with God's assistance, by our

arms. She promised you, if we conquered, to ask me for the reward you

desired. Theodora does not intercede with Justinian in vain. After

proving that you had only apparently adopted the faith of the heretics,

while in your heart, and also to your Catholic confessor, who was

authorized to grant you dispensation for that external semblance of

sin, you had always been faithful to the true religion, you are

recognized, having secretly received the Catholic consecration,

as an orthodox priest. So I command Belisarius, immediately on the

receipt of this letter, to proclaim you at once Catholic Bishop of

Carthage.'--Hear, all ye Carthaginians and Romans: in the Emperor's

name, I proclaim Verus Catholic Bishop of Carthage, and will put on the

Bishop's mitre and deliver the Bishop's staff. Kneel, Bishop."

Verus hesitated. He seemed to wish to receive the gold-embroidered

mitre standing; but Belisarius held it so low, so close to his own

knees, that the priest could do nothing but submit, if the desired

ornament and his head were to meet. The instant he felt it covered, he

sprang up again. Belisarius now placed in his hand the richly gilded,

crooked shepherd's staff. Then the Bishop, holding himself haughtily

erect, was about to move to the right of the throne.

"Stop, Reverend Bishop," cried Belisarius, "the Emperor's letter is not

yet finished." And he read on:

"'So the desired reward is yours. But Theodora, as you have learned,

does not intercede with Justinian in vain; so I will also fulfil her

second request. She thinks so bold and so crafty a man would be too

dangerous in the bishopric of Carthage; you might serve your new master

as you did the old one. Therefore she entreated me to have Belisarius,

immediately on receipt of this message, seize you,'"--at a sign from

the General, Fara, with the speed of lightning and with evident

delight, laid his mailed right hand heavily on the shoulder of Verus,

whose face blanched,--"'for you are exiled for life to Martyropolis on

the Tigris, upon the frontier of Persia, as far as possible from

Carthage. The Empress's confessor, whom she desires to have transferred

from Constantinople to Carthage, will manage the affairs of the

bishopric as your Vicarius, with the consent of the Holy Father in

Rome. There are penal mines in Martyropolis. During six hours in the

day you will care for the souls of the convicts. That you may be better

able to do this, by thoroughly understanding their state of feeling,

you will, during the other six hours, share their labor.' Away with

him!"

Verus tried to answer, but already the tuba blared loudly again, and,

before it sounded for the third time, six Thracians had hurried the

priest far away from the square, and disappeared in the street leading

to the harbor.

"Now summon Gelimer, the King of the Vandals," said the General,

loudly.

And from the gateway into the square came Gelimer, his hands fettered

with a chain of gold. One of the numerous pointed crowns found in the

royal treasure had been pressed upon his long tangled locks, and over

his ragged old purple mantle and penitent's girdle was flung a

magnificent new cloak of the same royal stuff. He had submitted to

everything unresistingly, motionless and silent, only at first he had

objected to the crown; then he said gently, "Be it so--my crown of

thorns." In the same unresisting, unmoved silence he now, like a

walking corpse, crossed with slow, slow steps the space,--possibly

three hundred feet,--which separated him from Belisarius. While, at the

mention of his name, a loud whisper, mingled with occasional

exclamations, had run through the ranks, all the many thousands were

silent now that they saw him: scorn, triumph, curiosity,

vindictiveness, pity no longer found any expression; they were silenced

by the majesty of this spectacle, the majesty of utter misery.

The captive King crossed the square entirely alone. No other prisoner,

not even a guard or warrior accompanied him. He kept his eyes,

shaded by long lashes, fixed upon the ground; they were sunk deep in

their sockets; his pale cheeks, too, were deeply sunken; the thin

fingers of his right hand were clenched around a small wooden cross.

Blood--visible when the mantle slipped back in walking--was trickling

from his girdle, down his naked limbs, in slow drops upon the white

sand of the square.

All were silent; a deathlike stillness pervaded the wide space; the

people held their breath until the hapless King stood before

Belisarius.

Deeply moved, the Roman General, too, found no words, but kindly

extended his right hand to the man before him. Gelimer now raised his

large eyes, saw Belisarius in all the glitter of gold and armor,

glanced quickly around the three sides of the square, beheld the

magnificence and pomp of warlike splendor, the victors' banners

fluttering high in the air, on the ground the standards and sparkling

royal treasure of the Vandals. Suddenly--we all started as this corpse

burst into such wild emotion--he flung both hands, with their long gold

chain, above his head, clasping them so that the metal clashed; the

cross slipped from his grasp; he uttered a shrill, terrible laugh.

"Vanity! _All_ is vanity!" he shrieked, and threw himself prone upon

the sand just at the feet of Belisarius.

"Is this illness?" whispered the General to me.

"Oh, no," I answered in the same tone. "It is despair--or piety. He

thinks that life is not worth living; everything human, everything

earthly, even his people and his kingdom are sinful, vain, empty. Is

this the last word of Christianity?"

"No, it is madness!" cried Belisarius the hero. "Up, my brave warriors!

Let the tubas blare again, the Roman tubas which echo through the

world! To the harbor! To the ships! And to the triumph--to

Constantinople!"

F E L I C I T A S

By FELIX DAHN

_Author of_ "_The Scarlet Banner_"

Translated from the German by Mary J. Safford. $1.50

* * * * *

It tells of a lovely wife named Felicitas, of her husband's inscription

of her name upon the threshold of her home, and of the happiness that

came to them in spite of Roman wickedness and German invasion.--_Boston

Journal_.

A charming idyl of the period when the Germans were forcing themselves

and their ideals upon the Roman Empire.... Felix Dahn is perhaps the

greatest historical novelist of Germany.--_The Churchman_.

Care, elevated purity of tone, and just balance distinguish it from

many hastily thrown off and perfervid romances of the day.--_Boston

Transcript_.

The charm of it lies in this admirable picture of innocence and

happiness amid the chaos of a fallen civilization.--_The Independent_.

The book is made in a way that commends it to lovers of the

beautiful.--_Chicago Evening Post_.

The historical accuracy of Professor Dahn's novels is

unimpeachable.--_San Francisco Argonaut_.

The book is dramatic. The author has evidently found a new field for

historical romance.--_Worcester Spy_.

* * * * *

A. C. McCLURG & CO., _Publishers_, Chicago

A CAPTIVE OF THE ROMAN EAGLES

By FELIX DAHN

_Author of_ "_Felicitas_"

Translated from the German by Mary J. Safford. $1.50

The story deals with that early period when Roman power was feeling the

inroads of Christianity, and the Pagan Teutons were not yet converted.

It has, however, little to do with religion and much with conflict. A

beautiful German girl captured by the Romans is the heroine.--_The

Outlook_.

The book is of distinct value, as illuminating for us one of the many

dim paragraphs in the record of the mighty struggle that Rome waged for

centuries with the wild men of Europe.--_Chicago Evening Post_.

At the present day he is considered the successor of Ebers in

historical fiction.--_Minneapolis Times_.

A book not only worth translating, but worth translating well, and its

English version, by Mary J. Safford, must be well-nigh as satisfactory

as the original.--_Book News_.

It has the solid excellence one finds in the stories of Dahn's

compatriot, Ebers.--_New York Commercial Advertiser_.

A high place in the historical fiction of the year belongs to the

translation of Felix Dahn's "Bissula."--_The Churchman_.

Such fiction is of the highest literary value. It redeems

the appellation "historical novel" from execration and

oblivion.--_Louisville Courier-Journal_.

Miss Safford has done her work of translating well. The book is

published in attractive form, and it is a fine tale.--_Boston Times_.

* * * * *

A. C. McCLURG & CO., _Publishers_, Chicago