"She loves another!" cried the Corsican, "whom?"
And his hand caught at his dagger, as if he would gladly have killed his rival on the instant.
There was something of the tiger in this movement, and in the glare of his rolling eyes.
Valerius felt how deadly would be his hatred, and would not mention the name.
"Who can it be?" asked Furius, in an under tone. "A Roman? Montanus? No! Oh, only--only not he--say no, old man! not he----" and he caught Valerius by the sleeve.
"Who? Whom do you mean?"
"He, who landed with me--the Goth! But yes it must be he--every one loves him--Totila!"
"It is he," said Valerius, and kindly tried to take his friend's hand. But he released it again in terror; a fearful convulsion shook the iron frame of the strong Corsican. He stretched forth his hand stiffly, as if he would strangle the pain which tortured him. Then he tossed back his head, and, laughing wildly, struck his forehead repeatedly.
Valerius observed this mad fit with horror. At last the arms of the enraged man slowly dropped, and revealed an ashy-pale face.
"It is over," said Furius in a trembling voice. "It is a curse that lies upon me. I am never to be happy in a wife. Once before--just before accomplishment! And now! I know that Valeria's influence and quiet composure would have brought peace into my wild life--I should have become different, better. And if this could not have been"--his eyes again sparkled--"it would have been almost equally sweet to murder the destroyer of my happiness. Yes, I would have wallowed in his blood, and torn his bride away from his corpse! And now it is he! He, the only being to whom Ahalla owes gratitude--and what gratitude!----"