But Zercho shook his unkempt head. Tears filled his eyes: "No," he said. "I will stay here, my lord, if Suomar will let me keep the little patch of ground I have always tilled--I had to give him only the twelfth sheaf from it--and the hut of woven willow branches by the lake. I would rather stay."
"Strange! Do you feel no longing for your home, your own people?"
"Home! We Sarmatians have none like yours, you patient, plough-guiding men, which you occupy beside the immovable hearthstone, rooted to the earth. Our home is the steppe, the broad, free steppe, which can be measured neither by the eye nor the steed. Ah! it is beautiful." The man's eyes sparkled, and suddenly Zercho, usually so dull and taciturn, was overwhelmed by an enthusiasm which, to the listeners' astonishment, gave his words wings. "Yes, it is more beautiful, more magnificent than all the Roman and German lands I have ever seen. When, in the spring, the sun has kissed away the last snow; when the moor laughs; when the steppe blossoms; when by day hundreds of hawks scream at once in the blue air, and the wild stallions, which have never borne a rider, neigh so terribly and dash so furiously past the tents, trampling over everything in their path as they pursue the trembling mares, till the heart of the boldest man might quiver with fear and yet also with joy at sight of such fierce, uncurbed strength! And oh, the nights, when the thousands and thousands of heavenly spirits look down from above, far, far more star-gods, shining far more brightly than here with you; and when, in the darkness, the cranes and wild-swans pass like thick clouds--for there are so many that they cast shadows in the moonlight--like resonant, clanging clouds high in the air!
"Doubtless the steppes of Sarmatia are more beautiful than any other lands and the lives of the Jazyges on their swift steeds are freer than other lives. But Zercho--Zercho no longer suits the steppe. I am like the bird, the wild bird of the moor, which boys keep for years in a small cage where it cannot spread its wings. If it is set free, nay, flung into the air, it drops down and lies still; it can no longer fly, it has forgotten how. So, toiling with the plough for many years and staying in one place has fettered me. Zercho can no longer ride as the Jazyges ride, vying with the wind; Zercho can no longer sleep every night on a different patch of earth and, if there be nothing better to eat, catch locusts and lizards. I am used to grain and bread, the fruit of the lands I have ploughed myself. I have no wish to leave them. And my family? I saw them all--all six--die before my eyes in one night, the terrible night when the faithless Romans--those slayers of the people, those murderous wolves!--suddenly attacked our encampment with the round, straw-thatched huts, by the Tibiscus, during an armistice. The bright blaze of the hurdles lighted them well in their work of slaughter. My father killed, my mother hurled into the flames of the straw tent, my two sisters--oh, horrible!--tortured to death, my two brothers leaping into the stream which flowed red with blood! And I--I saw it all, stretched before the hut, my head cleft by a sword stroke, defenceless, motionless. So I lay the whole starlit night, asking the thousand gods above there: 'Why? Why? Why?' But, when day dawned, the slave dealers who, like the ravens of the air and the wolves of the steppe marshes, follow the Romans on every battle-field, came and trod on all the Jazyges who lay there, to learn whether they were still alive. I quivered under their feet, was flung into a cart, and carried with them many, many days and weeks. At last the kind-hearted Suomar bought and rescued me. For never, though I was a bondman, did he call me 'dog,' like the dealers. He treated me like--like a human being. And when the little mistress grew up, Suomar's farm became my home. And I will stay down in the willow hut beside the lake as a free man, so long as I live, if I am allowed to do so. And when Zercho's death hour comes, the little red sprite (for we must rescue her, Adeling, and we will) shall close my eyes with her hand, and then they shall bury me in the open country, in the pastures by the lake. The cranes will pass over me at night with rustling wings and clanging cries, high in the air, and I shall hear it under the thin covering of turf and, in my death sleep, dream that I am lying in the blossoming, fragrant steppe grass."
He stopped. His cheeks were flushed; his ugly face was transfigured; never in his whole life had he uttered so many words at once.
The Duke held out his hand, saying: "No, Zercho, you are no dog. You have a heart, almost like the Alemanni's. Different, it is true, but not evil."
Adalo said nothing, but he clasped the bondman's other hand and pressed it warmly. Sippilo turned away: he did not want to let any one see his eyes.
"You have a lucky hand, boy," cried the Duke. "I can read your wishes in your eyes. Yes, you shall share the battle for the victory which your bold artifice has done so much to win."
Sippilo rushed to the old Commander-in-chief and clasped both his hands: "You diviner and fulfiller of wishes! I can imagine Odin like you! Last autumn Adalo refused me the sword, because"--he hung his head--"because I could not pierce with my spear the willow-woven Hermunduri shield in our hall. Pshaw, I was only a child then; but at the spring festival I pierced the old Roman shield which Suomar gave me for a target."
"I had bored six holes in it and stopped them up again," Zercho whispered to the Duke; "but let him go. I'll protect him."