I know. Wheresoever Stilicho plants his tent there is my fatherland.”
But Stilicho said them nay: “Cease, I beg you,” he cried, “stay your eager hands. Suffer to disperse the mountain of hatred that towers over me. I hold not victory so dear that I would fain seem to win it for myself. Loyal gentlemen, so long my fellow-soldiers, get you gone.” He said no more but turned away, as a lion loath to retire makes off with empty maw when the serried spears and the burning branches in the hands of the shepherd band drive him back and he droops his mane and closes his downcast eyes and with a disappointed roar pushes his way through the trembling forest.
When the armies saw that they had been parted and left, they groaned deeply and bedewed their helmets with a stream of tears. The sighs that refused egress to their smothered words shook the strong fastenings of their breastplates. “We are betrayed,” they cried, “and forbidden to follow him we love so well. Dost thou despise, matchless chief, thine own right hands which have so often won thee the victory? Are we thus vile? Is the Western sky to be the happier which has won the right to enjoy thy rule? What boots it to return to our country, to see once more our children dear after so long an absence, to live again in the home we love? Without thee is no joy. Now must I face the tyrant’s dread wrath; mayhap e’en now he is making ready against me some wicked snare and will make me a slave to the foul Huns or restless Alans. Yet is not my strength altogether perished nor so complete my powerlessness to wield the sword. Rest thou beneath the sun’s westering course, Stilicho, thou art still
tu mihi dux semper, Stilicho, nostramque vel absens
experiere fidem. dabitur tibi debita pridem 276
victima: promissis longe placabere sacris.”
Tristior Haemoniis miles digressus ab oris
tangebat Macetum fines murosque subibat,