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."