"Every tone of thy voice penetrated deeply into my heart, for the sweet sound reminded me so vividly, so sadly----"
"Of whom?" asked Mataswintha, and she turned pale as death.
"Of her whom I have sacrificed! Who gave up all for me; of my wife Rauthgundis, the soul of my soul!"
For how long a time had he never uttered aloud that beloved name! At the sound of his own voice, grief and longing overcame him, and sinking into a chair, he buried his face in his hands.
It was well that he did so, for it spared him the sight of the Queen's sudden start, and the Medusa-like expression which convulsed her features.
But the sound of a fall made him spring from his seat.
Mataswintha lay upon the ground. Her left hand grasped the broken arm of the chair near which she had fallen, while her right was pressed convulsively upon the mosaic floor. Her pale face was bent down; her splendid golden hair, loosed from its bonds, flowed over her shoulders; her mobile nostrils quivered.
"Queen!" cried Witichis, bending to lift her up, "what ails thee?"
But before he could touch her, she started up, swift as a serpent, and stood erect.
"It was only a weakness--which is already over," she panted. "Farewell!"