There we will lay our bravest King
In his bed of oaken spears.
"From off our feet--give place! give place!--
We shake Rome's traitor dust;
We only bear our King away--
For the Gothic crown is lost!"
When the bier was carried past the litter, Narses called a halt, and said in a low voice in the Latin language:
"Mine was the victory, but his the fame! There, take the laurel wreath! Other generations may see greater things, but now. King Teja, I greet you as the greatest hero of all ages!"
And he laid the laurel wreath upon the dead man's pallid brow. The bearers again took up the bier, and slowly and solemnly, to the sad sound of Adalgoth's silver harp, the death-song of the people, and the long-drawn tones of the war-horns, the procession marched on towards the sea, which now glowed magnificently in the evening red.
Close behind Teja's body was carried a lofty crimson throne. Upon it rested the silent august form of Dietrich of Bern; upon the head the crowned helm; on the left arm the tall shield; a spear leaning against the right shoulder. On the left of the throne marched old Hildebrand, his eyes fixed upon the face of his beloved master, which shone in the magic light of the setting sun. He held aloft the banner with the device of the lion, high above the head of the great Dead. The evening breeze from the Ausonian Sea rustled in the folds of the immense flag, which, in ghost-like speech, seemed to be taking leave of Italian soil.