“Come, Marina,” said her husband good-humouredly, “be not always a boder of ill. Thou deemest a Goth worse than a gorgon or hydra, whereas, I assure you, they are very good fellows after all, if you stand up to them like a man, and trust their word. Old Meinhard is a capital hunting comrade.”
Wherewith the worthy Marcus went off with his little son at his heels to inspect the doings of the slaves in the farm-court in the rear, having no taste for the occupation of his father and the Bishop, who composed themselves to listen to a MS. of the letters of S. Gregory Nazianzen, which Sidonius had lately acquired, and which was read aloud to them by a secretary slave.
Some time had thus passed when a confused sound made the Senator start up. He beheld his daughter and her escort within the lower court, but the slaves were hastily barring the gates behind them, and loud cries of “Justice! Vengeance!” in the Gothic tongue, struck his only too well-accustomed ears.
Columba flung herself before him, crying—
“O father, have pity! It was for our holy faith.”
“He blasphemed,” was all that was uttered by Verronax, on whose dress there was blood.
“Open the gates,” called out the Senator, as the cry outside waxed louder. “None shall cry for justice in vain at the gate of an Æmilius. Go, Marcus, admit such as have a right to enter and be heard. Rise, my daughter, show thyself a true Roman and Christian maiden before these barbarians. And thou, my son, alas, what hast thou done?” he added, turning to Verronax, and taking his arm while walking towards the tribunal, where he did justice as chief magistrate of the Roman settlement.
A few words told all. While Columba was engaged with her sick widow, a young stranger Goth strolled up, one who had stood combing his long fair hair, and making contemptuous gestures as the Rogation procession passed in the morning. He and his comrades began offensively to scoff at the two young men for having taken part in the procession, uttering the blasphemies which the invocation of our Blessed Lord was wont to call forth.
Verronax turned wrathfully round, a hasty challenge passed, a rapid exchange of blows; and while the Arvernian received only a slight scratch, the Goth fell slain before the hovel. His comrades were unarmed and intimidated. They rushed back to fetch weapons from the house of Deodatus, and there had been full time to take Columba safely home, Verronax and his dog stalking statelily in the rear as her guardians.
“Thou shouldst have sought thine impregnable crag, my son,” said the Senator sadly.