The whole sky had now become one black vault.
Hildebad, drowsy with wine, went towards his night-watch at the Porta Honorii.
"Still at thy post, Fridugern?" he called to the young Goth in passing. "And still no rain. The poor earth, how thirsty it will be! I pity it! Goodnight!"
It was insufferably sultry in the houses, for the wind blew from the scorching deserts of Africa.
The people, alarmed by the threatening appearance of the heavens, came out of doors, walking in companies through the streets, or sitting in groups in the courtyards and under the colonnades of the churches.
A crowd of people sat upon the steps of Saint Apollonaris.
And, though the sun had scarcely set, it was already as black as night.
Upon her couch in her bed-chamber lay Mataswintha, the Queen, in a kind of heavy stupor, her cheeks pale as death. Her wide open eyes stared into the darkness. She refused to answer Aspa's anxious questions, and presently dismissed the weeping slave with a motion of her hand.
As she lay thinking, these names passed continuously and monotonously through her mind: Witichis--Rauthgundis--Mataswintha! Mataswintha--Rauthgundis--Witichis!
Thus she lay for a long, long time; and it seemed as if nothing could ever interrupt the unceasing circle of these words.