He dismissed his visitor and called his slaves to dress him. Shortly afterwards, enveloped in a dark mourning garment, he descended to the vault where the corpse lay exposed. With an imperious gesture he motioned aside the guard and the women of Amalaswintha, who kept watch at the door, and entered noiselessly.
It was the low vaulted hall, where, in former times, the corpses of the emperors had been prepared with salves and combustibles for the funeral pyre.
This quiet hall, flagged with dark-green serpentine, the roof of which was supported by short Doric columns of black marble, was never illumined by a ray of sunshine, and at the present moment no other light fell upon the gloomy Byzantine mosaics on the gold ground of the walls than that from four torches, which flickered with an uncertain light near the stone sarcophagus of the young King.
There he lay upon a dark purple mantle; helm, sword, and shield at his head.
Old Hildebrand had wound a wreath of oak-leaves amidst the dark locks. The noble features reposed in pallid and earnest beauty.
At his feet, clad in a long mourning veil, sat the tall form of the Queen, supporting her head upon her left arm, which was laid upon the sarcophagus. Her right hand hung languidly down. She could weep no more.
The crackling of the burning torches was the only sound in this stillness of the grave.
Cethegus entered noiselessly, not unmoved by the poetry of the scene.
But, contracting his brows, he smothered the passing feeling of compassion. He knew that it was necessary to be clear and composed.
He gently drew near and took Amalaswintha's relaxed hand.