The Gallic tunic of the poor conjurer hung in rags from his body; his false yellow hair was torn off his head, and beneath appeared locks of glossy black; the white hue of his neck ended in a chest the colour of bronze.
With a last exertion of strength he reached the women, and recognised Mataswintha.
"Protect me, save me, white goddess!" he cried, and fell at her feet.
The Italians had already reached him, and the nearest raised his knife.
But Mataswintha spread her blue mantle over the fallen man.
"Back!" she cried with majesty. "Leave him. He is under the protection of the Queen of the Goths!"
The livery-servants fell back abashed.
"Indeed!" at last said the one with the dagger, "is this dog and son of a dog to go unpunished? and five of us lie half dead on the ground, and I have three teeth too few? Is there to be no punishment?"
"He is punished enough," said Mataswintha, pointing to the deep gash on the neck of the conjurer.
"And all this fuss about a worm!" cried another. "About a snake that escaped from his knapsack, which we tried to kill with stones."