The slave took his hand and kissed it, gazing intently on his face; and then, seeing by the calm and grateful sincerity of the young Roman's look that no scorn existed in his bosom towards that deformed and frightful shape which crouched at his feet, he sprang up, saying, "I have deceived you, but I will not betray you. I am not sent by Attila, but by Bleda, his brother. Beware of him! Roman, beware of him!"
"I have no cause to fear him," answered Theodore: "I have done naught to injure him."
The slave shook his head mournfully. "Are we only injured by those whom we have injured?" he demanded. "Alas! were it so, I should not be what I am. But I must speed hence, and not talk with thee too long, lest he hear that I have done so, and think I have betrayed him."
"But tell me, what is thy name?" demanded Theodore. "I have naught to give thee as a reward, but some day, perchance, I may have, and I will not fail."
"My name is Zercon," answered the slave; "and I am the crooked and mutilated jester of Bleda, the brother of Attila. Thou hast looked upon me with eyes of feeling and compassion, and I am rewarded enough; but I will serve thee further still."
Thus saying, he left the tent, and drew the external curtain closely after him. Theodore paused to think over what he had heard; but, as he reflected, he could find in all the wide range of probability no cause why Bleda should seek to injure him--"There must be some mistake," he thought; and, overpowered with weariness and exhaustion, he laid his sword close beside the bed of skins, and casting himself down, endeavoured to forget his cares in slumber. Restless, unhappy, fevered, long and painfully he tossed upon that lowly couch, courting in vain the blessed influence which opens for us, for a while, those gates of care, that shut us in the dreary prison of ourself. The faintly-burning lamp stood beside him; and by its pale light, as his eye roved round, the dark hangings of the tent became peopled with the spectres of imagination. His father passed before him, as he last had seen him at Byzantium; but his garments were spotted and dabbled with blood, and his countenance was pale with the ashy hue of death. Then came Flavia, with a crown upon her head, and a shroud about her person. Then he beheld Eudochia struggling in the arms of a fierce and eager form, and then Ildica glided across the scene, clothed in bridal robes, and with her left hand clasped in that of a wild, shadowy shape, which led her slowly forward, while in her right she carried a naked dagger, dropping as she went large gouts of crimson blood.
He knew, he felt, that it was all delusion, but yet he could not banish the swarming fancies that disturbed his brain, and even deceived the organ of sight itself. He closed his eyes, and resolutely turned his face to the wall of the tent, near which he lay, and employed himself in listening to the various sounds which rose up from the myriads spread over that wide plain. Although there were some noises which might be distinguished from the rest, an occasional burst of laughter, the loud and measured tones of some singer or reciter, or the wild notes of various rude instruments of music, yet the general buzz of all the many voices far and near came upon his ear with a drowsy and lulling hum, which gradually brought on an inclination to sleep. As time passed, too, the louder and more distinct sounds died away, and the whole subsided into a low and whispering rustle, which was like the noise of the sea upon a pebbly shore, only that it wanted the regular intermission of the successive waves. Forgetfulness fell upon him; but in a moment he awoke again with a quick start, gazed round to see where he was, felt the load of care pressed back upon memory, and hastened again to close his eyes, and cast it off once more.
He slept again, and this time more profoundly than the last, though his breathing was short and thick, and his limbs tossed to and fro. The lamp burnt more and more dimly. The sounds in the camp fell into silence, only broken now and then by the wild neighing of a war-horse.
At length, a little before midnight, the curtain, which separated the tent into two chambers, and which he had let drop when he lay down to rest, trembled as with a slight wind--was slowly moved--was drawn back; and a tall, powerful form took a step within, and let it quietly fall again. Two more paces brought him to the side of the couch where the young Roman lay, and, with arms folded on his chest, the giant-like intruder gazed upon the sleeping youth, and then looked cautiously round the tent. When he had done so twice, he blew out the lamp, and drawing over his tall form the mantle which Theodore had cast off, he crouched himself down at the foot of his bed. All was still and silent but the quick, heavy breathing of the Roman youth, and the rustling of his clothes, as he turned from time to time upon his uneasy couch. In less than half an hour, however, the curtain again moved, and a listening head was advanced within it.
"The lamp has gone out," said a whispering voice, speaking to some one in the outer chamber, in the lowest tone that the human tongue can assume; "lift up the curtain of the door, lest I miss my blow."