“Thanks, thanks!” sobbed the old man, covering the young noble’s hands with kisses. “But tell me, pray, how it all happened; how is it possible that, in the midst of such a crowd of servants....”
“All is possible to those who dare all. What I heard—and the merest accident prevented my being an eye witness—aroused as much astonishment in me, as in you. All the bystanders seemed to have been paralyzed. It was like an eagle in the Hyrcanian mountains,[204] swooping down on a lamb. One man particularly, a stalwart, broad-shouldered fellow, did wonders of valor....”
Thrax Barbatus drew himself up with the elasticity of youth. Happy pride sparkled in his eyes, and an expression—a radiance, as it were, of beatific affection illuminated his rugged and strongly-wrinkled features.
“That was Philippus, my son!” he said with a trembling voice. “Oh! it was not for nothing, that he fought for years against the Dacians, not in vain that he endured frost and heat. There is not a man in all the legion that is his match in skill and strength; not one that can beat him in running or in lance-throwing. But speak, my lord; you look so grave, so sad! What is it? Oh, for God’s sake, in Christ’s name—it is impossible! My son, my Philippus!—but he could stand against twenty—speak, my lord, or you will kill me....”
“Poor old man,” said Quintus much moved, “what good will it do to conceal the truth from you? Your son is dead. Scorning to fly, he exposed himself too long to his foes. He died like a hero.”
Thrax Barbatus uttered a soul-piercing cry, and fell backwards to the ground; Euterpe flung herself upon him and clasped his head to her heart, weeping bitterly.
“Thrax—dear, good friend,” she sobbed out: “Control yourself, collect yourself! Show yourself strong in this terrible trouble! Consider, you will have Glauce, and Eurymachus, who loves you like a son.”
The old man slowly pulled himself up; he pushed Euterpe violently aside, and then sinking on to his knees, raised his hands in passionate appeal to Heaven. His lips moved in prayer, but no sound was heard. Quintus, lost in astonishment, stood leaning against a pillar, while Euterpe wept silently, her face buried in her arm. A terrible storm seemed to be raging in the old man’s soul; his breast rose and fell like a wind-tossed sea, and a wild fire glowed in his eyes. But by degrees he grew calmer, and his features assumed an expression of sorrowing and silent resignation. It was as though a tender and beatific ray of forgiveness lighted them up, growing clearer each moment. After a time he rose.
“Pardon me, my lord,” he said slowly. “I was stricken down by the vastness of my grief. He fell like a hero, you said? And Eurymachus is safe?”
“He escaped,” replied Quintus, “which, alas! is not quite the same thing. Every effort will be made to recover possession of the fugitive. Well, we must see what can be done. Accident has enlisted me on your side, and I will play the part out to the end. For the present leave me; I am tired out, and a tired man is of no use as an adviser; but this evening, about the second vigil,[205] I will find my way to your dwelling, unaccompanied.”