Therefore God hath stricken thee,
Therefore bowed thy head in shame.
"Bow thee, bow thee to the dust,
Bruised race of Genseric;
Kiss the rod in gratitude.
It is God the Lord Who smites."
The dirge died away. The royal singer ascended with tottering steps the half-ruined stairs of the basilica, his harp hanging loosely from his left arm. Now he stood between the gray, mouldering pillars of the entrance, and, laying his right arm against the cold stone, pressed his weary head upon it.
Just at that moment a young Moor came hurrying up the steps; a few bounds brought him to the top. Gibamund and Hilda went toward him in astonishment.
"It is long since I have seen you move so swiftly, Sersaon," said Gibamund.
"Your eyes are sparkling," cried Hilda. "You bring good tidings."