The Scarlet Banner. Felix Dahn

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СКАЧАТЬ there he seeks but one."

      "But"--the speaker suddenly started--"who is the other at his right,--the one on the dun horse? I almost shrank when I met his eye. He looks like the youth, only he is much older. Who is he?"

      "That is his brother Gelimer; God bless his noble head!"

      "Aha, so he is the hero of the day? I have often heard his name at home in Syracuse. So he is the conqueror of the Moors?"

      "Yes, he has defeated them again, the torments. Do you hear how the Carthaginians are cheering him? We citizens, too, must thank him for having driven the robbers away from our villages and fields back to their deserts."

      "I suppose he is fifty years old? His hair is very gray."

      "He is not yet forty!"

      "Just look, Eugenes! He has sprung from his horse. What is he doing?"

      "Didn't you see? A child, a Roman boy, fell while trying to run in front of his charger. He lifted him up, and is seeking to find out whether he was hurt."

      "The child wasn't harmed; it is smiling at him and seizing his glittering necklet. There--he is unfastening the chain and putting it into the little fellow's hands. He kisses him and gives him back to his mother. Hark, how the crowd is cheering him! Now he has leaped back into the saddle. He knows how to win favor."

      "There you wrong him. It is his nature. He would have done the same where no eye beheld him. And he need not win the favor of the people: he has long possessed it."

      "Among the Vandals?"

      "Among the Romans, too; that is, the middle and lower classes. The senators, it is true, are different! Those who still live in Africa hate all who bear the name of Vandal; they have good reason for it, too. But Gelimer has a heart to feel for us; he helps wherever he can, and often opposes his own people; they are almost all violent, prone to sudden anger, and in their rage savagely cruel. I above all others have cause to thank him."

      "You? Why?"

      "You saw Eugenia, my daughter, before we left our house?"

      "Certainly. Into what a lovely girl the frail child whom you brought from Syracuse a few years ago has blossomed!"

      "I owe her life, her honor, to Gelimer. Thrasaric, the giant, the most turbulent of all the nobles, snatched her from my side here in the open street at noonday, and carried the shrieking girl away in his arms. I could not follow as swiftly as he ran. Gelimer, attracted by our screams, rushed up, and, as the savage would not release her, struck him down with a single blow and gave my terrified child back to me."

      "And the ravisher?"

      "He rose, laughed, shook himself, and said to Gelimer: 'You did right, Asding, and your fist is heavy.' And then since--"

      "Well? You hesitate."

      "Yes, just think of it; since then the Vandal, as he could not gain her by force, is suing modestly for my daughter's hand. He, the richest noble of his nation, wishes to become my son-in-law."

      "Why, that is no bad outlook."

      "Princess Hilda, my girl's patroness--she often sends for the child to come to her at the Capitol and pays liberally for her embroideries--Princess Hilda herself speaks in his behalf. But I hesitate; I will not force her on any account."

      "Well, what does she say?"

      "Oh, the Barbarian is as handsome as a picture. I almost believe--I fear--she likes him. But something holds her back. Who can read a girl's heart? Look, the leaders of the horsemen are dismounting--Gelimer too--in front of the basilica."

      "Strange. He is the hero,--the square echoes with his name,--and he looks so grave, so sad."

      "Yes, there again! But did you see how kindly his eyes shone as he soothed the frightened child?"

      "Certainly I did. And now--"

      "Yes, there it is; a black cloud suddenly seems to fall upon him. There are all sorts of rumors about it among the people. Some say he has a demon; others that he is often out of his mind. Our priests whisper that it is pangs of conscience for secret crimes. But I will never believe that of Gelimer."

      "Was he always so?"

      "It has grown worse within a few years. Satanas--Saint Cyprian protect us--is said to have appeared to him in the solitude of the desert. Since that time he has been even more devout than before. See, his most intimate friend is greeting him at the basilica."

      "Yonder priest? He is an Arian; I know it by the oblong, narrow tonsure."

      "Yes," replied the Carthaginian, wrathfully, "it is Verus, the archdeacon! Curses on the traitor!" He clinched his fists.

      "Traitor! Why?"

      "Well--renegade. He descends from an ancient Roman senatorial family which has given the Church many a bishop. His great-uncle was Bishop Laetus of Nepte, who died a martyr. But his father, his mother, and seven brothers and sisters died under a former king amid the most cruel tortures, rather than abjure their holy Catholic religion. This man, too,--he was then a youth of twenty,--was tortured until he fell as if dead. When he recovered consciousness, he abjured his faith and became an Arian, a priest,--the wretch!--to buy his life. Soon--for Satan has bestowed great intellectual gifts upon him--he rose from step to step, became the favorite of the Asdings, of the court, suddenly even the friend of the noble Gelimer, who had long kept him coldly and contemptuously at a distance. And the court gave him this basilica, our highest sanctuary, dedicated to the great Cyprian, which, like almost all the churches in Carthage, the heretics have wrested from us."

      "But look--what is the hero doing? He is kneeling on the upper step of the church. Now he is taking off his helmet."

      "He is scattering the dust of the marble stairs upon his head."

      "What is he kissing? The priest's hand?"

      "No, the case containing the ashes of the great saint. He is very devout and very humble. Or shall I say he humiliates himself? He shuts himself up for days with the monks to do penance by scourging."

      "A strange hero of Barbarian blood!"

      "The hero blood shows itself in the heat of battle. He is rising. Do you see how his helmet--now he is putting it on again--is hacked by fresh blows? One of the two black vulture wings on the crest is cut through. The strangest thing is,--this warrior is also a bookworm, a delver into mystic lore; he has attended the lectures of Athenian philosophers. He is a theologian and--"

      "A player on the lyre, too, apparently! See, a Vandal has handed him a small one."

      "That is a harp, as they call it."

      "Hark, he is touching the strings! He is singing. I can't understand."

      "It is the Vandal tongue."

      "He has finished. How his Germans shout! They are striking their spears on their shields. Now he is descending the steps. What? Without entering the church, as the others did?"

      "Yes, I remember! He vowed, when he shed blood, to shun СКАЧАТЬ