He had brought with him, though little schooled, a decided gift for song. Teja was pleased with his genius; and it was reported that he secretly taught him his superior art, though they suited each other as little as night and morning.
"It is just on that account," said Teja, when his brave cousin Aligern once remarked this to him, "something must be left when the night sinks."
The King felt that the only thing that could be offered to this man was in his power to offer--neither gold, nor land, nor dignities.
One night King Totila came to where the two bards were sitting. He followed the sounds which, arising at irregular intervals from a grove of cypresses, and interrupted by half-sung, half-spoken words, were borne to his ear by the night wind. Unnoticed and unbetrayed by the soft moonlight, Totila reached the avenue of half-wild laurels and cypresses which led into the centre of the garden.
But now Teja heard the approaching footsteps, and laid aside his harp.
"It is the King," he said; "I recognise his step. What seekest thou here, my King?"
"I seek thee, Teja," answered Totila.
Teja sprang from his seat upon a fallen column.
"Then we must fight!" he exclaimed.
"No," said Totila; "but I deserve this reproach."