Tearless, all tearless was the bright eye of the Dalmatian girl, although through the clear white skin of the temples might be seen the blue veins swelling up like cords with the rushing up of the agonized blood.
The enthusiast kept silence, and gazed on her with a look of deep grief; but from the dark blue eyes of Neva rolled profuse the large heavy tears, and in the sorrow of her own heart she asked many a question of the messenger regarding all the particulars of the fate of one still too dearly beloved.
"Art thou sure," she demanded, "that the winds and tempests did the work of death? Art thou sure that the commands of Attila, more cruel, more unsparing than the fierce elements, had not their share?"
"I know nothing," replied the messenger, "but that which I was commanded to say. The ship perished, and almost all on board were drowned."
"Almost all!" cried Ildica, starting up, and gazing eagerly in the man's face--"almost all! Then there is yet hope!"
"Alas, no!" replied the messenger. "All who reached the land were slain upon the shore by some wandering bands of warriors!"
"Even so! even so!" cried Ildica; "sent on purpose to destroy him at his landing! Oh, fatal beauty! Thou hast caused the death of him I loved most on earth;" and she cast herself down upon the couch and hid her face in her robe; while from time to time a sharp shudder might be seen to pass over that fair form, as if the anguish of the spirit were destroying its earthly tabernacle.
"Art thou sure that he was in the ship?" demanded Neva, still clinging to a hope.
"Quite sure!" replied the messenger; "presents from the Emperor Marcian--goods marked with the youth's name--his very clothing itself, have been brought into the presence of Attila."
"Of his murderer!" said Neva; "of his murderer!'"