THE BRIDAL OF ATTILA.
On an eminence rising above the banks of the river, near which the
vast army of the Huns pitched its camp on the ensuing night, was found
a splendid pavilion, with workmen still labouring hard to complete it,
when the vanguard of the army reached its ground. Ere Attila himself
arrived, the whole was finished; and a palace of richly-ornamented
woodwork, mingled and decorated with hangings of crimson and gold,
waited his approach.
The mood of the monarch, however, was not placable; and the workmen
whom he had sent forward to prepare his abode received no token of his
thanks or approbation, notwithstanding the skill and zeal which they
had displayed. Those who had accompanied him on the way had found good
cause to mark his discontented humour; and Ardaric and Valamir, and
even Onegisus himself, had seized the first opportunity of withdrawing
themselves from the side of one who treated all with indignity, which
their free spirits could but ill bear. The cause of this harsh rumour
might be, it was whispered, that Ardaric had ventured remonstrances,
and Valamir had seconded them, which were displeasing to the ear of
Attila; but never before, in his most passionate moods, had he given
way to such intemperance of language as he had that day displayed
towards two of his noblest and most disinterested supporters. An hour
after their arrival, however, they received a summons to attend the
bridal and the banquet of the mighty king; and to the pavilion on the
hill they took their way, clothed in the most splendid robes that the
camp could supply.
In a vast hall, decorated by crimson hangings, which many a tributary
land had combined to furnish, stood Attila himself, already surrounded
by a multitude of his officers and chiefs. To the astonishment of
every one there present, however, the monarch of the Huns appeared not
now in the plain garment of his Scythian ancestors. For the first time
in his life, gold, and jewels, and vestures of silk covered the
powerful limbs of the mighty conqueror. The heavy iron sword which
never before had left his side was now no longer there. All the rude
weapons of war were carefully excluded from his dress; and jewels of
inestimable value bound his haughty brow.
In the same hall, at the farther end, was raised a temporary altar,
festooned with green leaves and the few autumnal flowers which the
country round could supply. Elevated upon that altar was seen the
ponderous sword of the Scythian Mars, famous in the history of
Attila's reign, from the singular manner in which it had been found.
Beside it stood a number of the Scythian priests; and the steps which
led to it were thickly strewed with leaves of the wild laurel and the
hemlock.
The countenance of Attila himself was now cleared of the clouds which
had obscured it; but still, the joy with which it beamed as plainly
testified the change which his nature had lately undergone as the
frowns that had hung upon it before. In former days, the countenance
of Attila had been a stranger to both frowns and smiles. The stern
passions which moved him then had wrought and struggled within the
secret chambers of his breast alone, and no light emotions had seemed
to affect his outward bearing. Now he was moved by many things; and,
in spite of all his efforts to seem what he had been, the emotions of
his heart thrilled through his bodily frame, and made themselves seen
upon the surface.
"Where are the Christian priests?" demanded the voice of the monarch,
as soon as he had spoken a few words to Valamir and Ardaric, in a tone
evidently intended to soften the harsh impression produced by his
ill-humour of the morning--"where are the Christian priests?"
"None have been found in the camp, oh mighty king," said Edicon,
coming forward. "I have inquired in every quarter, and none have been
found."
"None!" exclaimed Attila; "none! Where is that rash priest Mizetus; he
who by a few empty words provoked the wrath of so many mighty chiefs.
I have seen him since in the camp. I saw him no later than yesterday.
Let him be sent for; and tell the bride that Attila waits her coming,
as the spring-earth waits for the rising of the morning sun."
The messengers departed; and then came a pause, dead and silent, and
painful to all but those common spirits who saw nothing in the scene
they were called to behold but the common festivity of a day. Ardaric
and Valamir gazed upon each other, but they spoke not, till some
casual movement caused a murmur to run through the hall. Then, in a
low voice, the latter asked the former, "What, think you, will be the
result?"
"I know not," answered Ardaric; "but, from what I hear, she is not
unwilling. Yet, from some chance words dropped in my wife's presence,
either her mind wanders as that of one deprived of reason, or else
deeper thoughts than we know of are at work within her brain. But lo,
they come!"
As he spoke the door of the hall was thrown open, and a bevy of fair
young girls, strewing the way with flowers, entered the hall, and
wound round towards the altar. Following them, and leaning on the arm
of Neva, appeared the Dalmatian bride, clothed in robes of white.
No fear, no agitation was in her step; but firmly and easily she moved
along the hall, beauty and grace shining like a glory from every limb
and every feature. Neva was far more moved than Ildica; but the
countenances of both were paler than the Parian stone; while from
those fair, colourless faces beamed forth the beautiful eyes of
each--the deep, devoted, dark-blue eyes of Neva, the large, lustrous,
liquid eyes of Ildica, shining like brilliant lamps from out a marble
tomb.
They took but one gaze around the hall as they entered; but that gaze
had a different effect upon each. With Neva it seemed to bewilder and
confound: she dropped her eyes again instantly, and advanced with a
wavering and uncertain step. The gaze of Ildica was firm and calm;
though, as she beheld the scene of barbaric splendour that surrounded
her, her brow slightly contracted; her eye flashed for an instant with
a wilder, perhaps a brighter fire. Slowly she turned her gaze towards
the altar; and, without noticing any one in the hall, approached
deliberately the spot where the sacrifice of herself was to be
completed.
A number of matrons followed; and behind them again came the hermit
Mizetus, clad in the same wild robes which he wore in the desert and
on the mountain. Attila turned to approach the altar; but the hermit
advanced towards him, saying boldly, "Thou hast sent for me. I am
here. What wouldst thou with me!"
"I have sent for thee," replied Attila, "to perform between me and
that maiden the nuptial ceremonies, according to the customs of her
people and the rites of her faith."
"I am no priest, oh Attila!" answered the enthusiast. "I am one
touched by the finger of God, and set apart to speak terrible warnings
and foretel great events. But I have neither power to loose nor to
bind, to take up nor to cast down. No ceremonies can I perform; for I
am no priest according to any human law. But what needst thou think of
priests or ceremonies?" he continued, seeing Attila stand thoughtfully
before him. "Let the ceremony be performed according to thine own
will. Is not the will of Attila superior to all law?"
"Thou sayest right," answered Attila, advancing to the altar. "It is!"
And placing himself by the side of the altar opposite to Ildica, he
said, "Let the rites proceed! Oh beautiful Ildica, are you willing?"
Ildica raised her eyes, large, calm, liquid, shining as fountains of
living light. She gazed on him for a moment, and then, "I adjure thee,
oh Attila!" she cried, "to tell me truth! Is he dead?"
"He is!" replied Attila, emphatically.
"Art thou certain--quite certain?" demanded Ildica, still gazing in
his face.
"As certain as if my hand had slain him," replied Attila.
"Ha!" said Ildica. "Even so!"
"What sayest thou?" demanded Attila.
"That the will of the king is law." And she cast down her eyes to the
ground.
"Most beautiful and best beloved!" exclaimed Attila, taking her hand
with a look of eager passion. "Let the rites proceed."
They did proceed; and the strange and fanciful ceremonies of the pagan
nuptials were begun and ended between Attila and Ildica!
Still, during the whole of that ceremony, the fair unhappy girl
uttered not one word; but, passive before the heathen altar, she stood
like the victim so often brought there to be sacrificed. Her lips
moved not; her voice was heard not; and, without either consent or
denial, she became the bride of that dark and mighty king.
The priests ceased; the ceremony was over; and she still stood silent
before the altar, with her hand lying in that of Attila. And those who
stood by and saw, never forgot the sight of those small, white, taper
fingers resting in that broad powerful hand. At length she lifted up
her eyes, as if seeking for the heaven; and then her lips moved for a
moment, as if in prayer.
As was the custom, the women of the highest note there present
surrounded her, and led her away to a banquet prepared for her alone.
Ildica ate one cake of bread, and drank one cup of wine, and then
sought the chamber reserved for her. They would have led her in, and
stayed with her to adorn her; but she paused at the door, and bade
them leave her. They hesitated, and urged the custom of the land. But
she raised her head proudly, saying, "I am a Roman even here! But what
to you is more, I am the bride of Attila, and I command you, leave me!
I must spend the intervening time in prayer," she added, in a milder
tone; and, ceasing to urge her further, the women left her to her own
thoughts; and every one betook them to their homes again.
In the mean while Attila lead his chiefs to the banquet; but, as they
went, Ardaric and Valamir walked side by side, and spoke together in a
low tone over the scene just past.
"I comprehend it not," said Ardaric; "I understand it not. The memory
of old affection is clearly strong in her heart; neither do I think
that she forgets her country, nor believe that she is one to wed
either for fear or for ambition! If there should be some higher
purpose in her bosom, Valamir? If she should meditate some mighty
deed?--a deed which, since Attila is no longer Attila, many a brave
man in the camp has pondered on as the last hope of many here--a deed
which, since safety has been banished from our tents, and the swords
of our friends have been drawn at midnight against ourselves, may even
have crossed my mind and thine?"
"Hush!" said Valamir; "Onegisus watches us. Let us sit at separate
tables; but humour him to the full; and, as he has now forgot his
ancient temperance, let him drink deep. It matters not to us whether
drunkenness disgrace him on this night of pageantry or not. Cross him
not, I beseech thee, Ardaric! Thou hast had warning enough this day
that Attila hears counsel no longer, even when given for the
protection of his own honour."
Seated at the banquet, the same scenes, or very similar ones, took
place, which we have dwelt upon before. The same, in all respects,
except in the conduct of the chief actor therein. The rude poet sang
the glowing tale of mighty deeds and great warriors in the long-gone
past; the jester excited the roar of ribald laughter; the wine flowed
plenteously; the chiefs drank deep; but Attila, no longer calm and
grave, followed each impulse of the moment--now gave way to some hasty
wrath, now joined in the peal of merriment; and still, in the deep
wine-cup, provoked the emulation of his warriors.
It was when the night waxed late, and the banquet was nearly over,
that Zercon, the negro jester, who had already played his part in the
hall for the amusement of the guests, entered again, bearing in his
hands an enormous cup of gold, richly gemmed at the rim and on the
handles. The shape was beautiful; the workmanship splendid; the jewels
of inestimable value; and, as he approached the seat of Attila, the
eyes of the monarch, already inflamed with wine, gazed on the
magnificent vessel with eyes of wonder and admiration. Kneeling before
him, Zercon placed the cup in his hand, saying, "Behold, oh mighty
king, a present just arrived from a dear friend and well-wisher of
Attila. Thy messengers have just returned from the M[oe]sian frontier,
and bear thee this jewelled cantharus from Eugenius, bishop of Margus.
Happily has it come to grace thy bridal night."
Attila took the cup, and gazed upon it, repeating thoughtfully, "From
Eugenius, bishop of Margus!--the boy's uncle! I will use it some other
night."
"Nay, oh mighty king!" said Zercon, "no night like this; for in it you
may pledge yourself to avenge the wrongs of him who sent it."
"What wrongs?" cried Attila, turning upon him fiercely. "I know of no
wrongs that he has suffered."
"It comes," replied Zercon, in a deep tone, "from the dead to the
living! from the impotent to the mighty! Eugenius has been put to
death, by command of Marcian, for admitting the Huns to the Roman
territory; and thy messengers have but escaped with life and this cup,
which he had just given them for thee, as a pledge of his friendship."
Attila's countenance grew as dark as night. "Take the cup," he cried,
to one of his officers; "take the cup and let it be purified with
fire. Then bring it to me."
The attendant took the cup, and held it over a lighted torch in the
midst of the hall. Then, after passing it through water, he brought it
to the monarch, who filled it to the brim: and, rising from his seat,
exclaimed, "Pledge me, kings and mighty leaders! Pledge me, in our
last cup this night, death to the slave Marcian, who has dared to slay
the friend of Attila!" and he drank off the wine at once.
He had not spared the cup throughout the night; and now that deep
draught had a visible effect. He felt it himself; and, setting down
the cup, leaned his head upon his hand for a moment; then suddenly
rose, and, bending slightly to his guests, quitted the hall with an
unsteady step. Several of his chief attendants followed, but they
returned the moment after; and many of the leaders rose and left the
hall, conversing in low voices on the varied events lately passed.
Others remained, and protracted the debauch; but by the first hour
after midnight the pavilion of the king was void of its guests, and
all had returned to silence.
Among the first that left the hall were Ardaric and Valamir; and, as
they passed through the camp of the sleeping Huns, they paused for a
moment beside one of the tents in which a light was burning, and from
which might be heard the voice of lamentation.
"Hark! Her slaves weeping over her unhappy fate!" said Ardaric.
"What! did she not take them with her?" demanded Valamir.
"Not one," replied Ardaric; "not one, I hear. Neva, dead Bleda's
daughter, who dwells in our tents with my own children, reported that
she went alone; and none has been with her so much as Neva! She went
alone, Valamir: she went alone to her abhorred task, whatever that
task may be! Let us early to-morrow to Attila, and let us go together.
My heart is not at rest!"
Within the tent by which they stood were, as Ardaric conjectured, the
slaves and attendants of Ildica, weeping for their mistress, who had
gone forth alone, solitary, unaided, unbefriended, in that awful hour
of trial; and had gone so by her own choice. Collected in the outer
chamber of the tent she had occupied, they mourned as for her funeral;
but in the inner chamber of that tent were others who mourned not
less, but whose mourning was mingled with a strange agitation which
was neither hope nor fear.
By the light of a lamp, holding high a wooden cross, stood the hermit
Mizetus, and at his feet knelt the fair girl Neva, raising her eyes to
the symbol of a new faith which the enthusiast had lately planted in
her heart. Dark and obscure as was his own knowledge of the truth,
clouded by a bewildered brain and distorted by wild fancies, he had
still been able to show her a glimmering of the light which was
afterward to shine upon her more fully. Both were pale and haggard,
and moved by the anticipation of great and terrible events; and as
they passed there the long hours of that dreadful night, the young,
fair, lovely maiden kneeling at the feet of that old ascetic, the
tears poured down her cheeks in torrents; the sobs burst struggling
from her young kind bosom; and often the agony and apprehension of her
heart convulsed her form as if in the grasp of death.
"Fear not, fear not, my daughter!" would the hermit exclaim. "Fear not
for her! fear not for us! There is a mightier power than any on the
earth to shield us! There is a greater arm than ever drew mortal sword
to defend us! Even were we in the gates of death itself, I would bid
thee fear not; for God has broken the bonds of the grave asunder, and
provided a ransom to deliver us from hell itself!" Thus did he speak
through the livelong night, and thus did he try to give her
consolation and support; still bidding her not to fear, till at length
he said, "Fear not, maiden! fear not! Lo, the night is past, and the
morning is come; and after the darkness in which we walk upon this
earth shall come the light of a brighter day! Fear not! fear not! I
say unto you, fear not!"