Theodore needed no entreaty, but began his story, and with minute detail related all that had occurred to him during the last few months. Was there any part of that history which he did not tell, any of the events that had checkered his fate which he omitted in his narration? There were! A feeling of tenderness, of interest, of gratitude, kept him silent upon some points of the history of Bleda's daughter. He spoke of Neva, indeed; he told how she had nursed him in sickness, and how she had delivered him from captivity; but he could not, and he did not tell, while many an ear was listening, that she had bestowed the first love of her young heart upon one who could not return it.
Flavia hearkened to the tale, and at that part of it which related to Bleda's daughter her eyelids fell a little over her eyes. It was not that she doubted Theodore, for there was a simplicity and candour in all he said which admitted no suspicion; but she deemed how it was, and for the sake of the poor girl she was grieved that it should be so. Ildica, possessed but by one feeling, suspected and divined nothing; her only comment was, as she heard of his danger and escape, "Oh, why was it not I to whom the means of saving you were given?"
"Thank God, my Ildica," replied Theodore, "that you were far from such scenes and such dangers." But, as he was proceeding to conclude his tale, there were quick steps heard without, and the voice of Ammian singing gayly as he returned successful from his mountain sport.
[CHAPTER XXIII.]
THE INTERVAL OF HAPPINESS.
Hitherto we have given nearly a connected narrative; but now it may become necessary to proceed sometimes in detached scenes, leaving the mind of the reader to fill up the obvious chain of intervening facts.
Theodore and Ildica sat alone by the banks of the lake, with their eyes fixed upon the rippling waters that came whispering up nearly to their feet; and they gained, without knowing it, a tone of calm repose, in the midst of their hearts' thrilling enjoyment, from the tranquillity of the scene around, and the bright, untroubled softness of a fine autumn day. If, when they met on the preceding evening, Theodore had been moved by joy, such as his heart had never known before, Ildica's had been still more agitated, for delight had been carried to its fullest height by surprise. Theodore had come thither with expectation and hope as the harbingers of gratification; but to Ildica, the joy of his coming had burst suddenly forth, like the May-day sun when he scatters the clouds of morning from his path. Neither, however, the youth nor the maiden had been able to pause, and--if I may use so strange a term--enjoy their joy during the first evening after his arrival. The mind of each had been full of whirling images of pleasure, but with forms scarcely definite. Now, however, as they sat by the side of that calm lake, amid those glorious mountains, with a sky clear, but not burning, above their heads, and the fresh stillness of the early morning pervading all the air, the solemn tranquillity of the scene sunk into their souls, and bade their mutual thoughts flow on in peace.
The history of all external events which had befallen them had been told, it is true, by Flavia and Theodore, and many a little trait had been added by Eudochia, Ammian, and Ildica herself; but still she and her lover had both a long history to tell of thoughts and feelings, hopes and fears, of far deeper interest to each other than things that might seem of greater importance. Ildica towards Theodore had no thought concealed. No idle fear of lessening the value of her love by displaying it put an unnatural bar upon the pure feelings of her heart: not a doubt of his generous construction of all that she said fettered her words or embarrassed the expression of her thoughts; and she poured forth, without fear or hesitation, the tale of all she had felt since she left him in the hands of the Huns; how she had wept, and how she had feared; how she had daily looked for some tidings from him, or some change in her own fate; and how she had consoled herself with the remembrance of the extraordinary power he seemed to have obtained over the barbarian king.
The telling of that tale, now that the dangers were over and the fears gone by, was in itself a happiness; and, mingled with many a look of love and accent of affection, and many a tender caress, Ildica's narrative of all that she had felt proceeded, till, in the end, she had to relate how, on the very preceding night, while sitting on the little promontory with Eudochia, and her mother, and the slaves, there had been something in the situation which--though unlike in all the features of the landscape, though the air was colder, and the mountains nearer, and the sky of a paler hue--recalled the lovely Dalmatian shore to her mind; and how in the magic glass of memory had risen up the mound of cypresses, and the bay of Salona, and the glorious sunset, and all the objects and all the feelings of that well-remembered evening when her lover had last returned from the city of the emperors; and how, at those thoughts, the unbidden tears were rising even to overflowing in her eyes, when she saw a horseman suddenly gallop up the hill, and wild hopes and joyful presentiments had rushed through her heart, and taken from her all power of speech or motion, till she was once more clasped in his arms.
Theodore, too, had his tale to tell; and now, to the ear of her he loved, it was not less full or less candid than her own had been. He gave her a picture of all his thoughts in every situation through which he had passed, and her own unconscious questions soon brought the narrative towards Neva. But Theodore felt that he could trust in Ildica, and he told her all; and, with his arm circling her waist, he pressed her more tenderly, more closely to his bosom while he spoke of the love of another, as if he sought thereby to express how much more dear she had become to his heart under every change and every circumstance.