He paced rapidly through his tent.
Another turn--with a slower step.
And a third--then he stood still, and over his mighty brow came a flash of light.
"I have it!" he joyously cried. "Syphax," he called, "go and fetch Procopius."
As he again paced the tent, his eyes fell upon the fallen letter of the Merovingian.
"No," he laughed triumphantly, as he took it up from the ground. "No, King of the Franks, you shall not win as much of Italy's holy soil as is covered by this letter."
Procopius soon appeared. The two men sat talking earnestly through the whole night.
Procopius was startled at the bold and daring plans of the Prefect, and for some time refused to enter into them. But the genius of the man held him fast, overcame every objection before it was expressed, and at last he was so entangled in an inextricable network of argument, that he lost all power of resistance.
The stars were pale, and the dawn illumined the east with a grey stripe of light, when Procopius took leave of his friend.
"Cethegus," he said, rising, "I admire you. If I were not the historian of Belisarius, I should like to be yours."