But Totila shook his head, smiled, and said:
"We owe you and King Frode warm thanks for rare and noble faithfulness. Such brotherly love from the Northern heroes shall never be forgotten in the songs of the Goths. But, O King Harald, follow me and look about you."
And Totila rose and took his guest by the hand, and led him to the entrance of the pavilion, casting back the hanging curtains.
There lay river and land and city in the glowing light of the setting sun.
"Look at this land, wonderful in the beauty of its sky and soil and art. Look at this Tiber-stream, covered by a happy, jubilant, and handsome people. Look at these masses of laurel and myrtle. Cast thine eyes upon the columned palaces, which shine across from Rome in the evening rays; on the tall marble figures upon these terrace-steps--and say thou, if all this were thine, wouldst thou ever leave it? Wouldst thou exchange all this magnificence for the firs and pines of the cold land of the north, where spring-time never blooms, for the smoke-blackened wooden huts on the misty heaths?"
"Aye, that I would, by Thorns hammer! This land is good to lay waste, to luxuriate and win battles in; but that done, then up and away with the booty! But you, Goths, are thrown here like drops of water upon hot iron. And if ever we sons of Odin shall rule this land, it will be only such of us as have a strong support in other sons of Odin. But you--you have already become very different to us. Your grandfathers, your fathers, and yourselves have wooed Roman women; in a few generations, if this continue, you will be Romanised. Already you have become smaller, and darker in skin, eyes, and hair. At least many of you. I long to be away from this soft and sultry air, and to breathe the north wind that rushes over our woods and waves. Yes, and I long for the smoke-blackened halls of wood, where Gothic runes are burnt into the roof-beams, and the harps of the Skalds hang on the wooden pillars, and the sacred hearth-fire glows hospitably for ever! I long for our Northland, for it is our home!"
"Then permit us to love our home: this land Italia!"
"It will never be your home; but perhaps your grave. You are strangers and will remain so. Or you will become Romanised. But there is no abiding in the land possible for you as sons of Odin."
"Let us at least try, my brother Harald," cried Totila, laughing. "Yes, we have changed in the two centuries during which our people have lived among the laurels. But are we the worse for it? Is it necessary to wear a bearskin in order to be a hero? Is it necessary to rob gold and marble statues in order to enjoy them? Can one be only either a barbarian or a Roman? Can we not keep the virtues of the Germans and lay aside their faults? Adopt the virtues of the Romans without their vices?"
But Harald shook his massive head.