The decease of Attila was already known, and consternation was spreading among the ranks of the Huns. The report, too, was not wanting that he had met a violent death; but those only were admitted to view the body upon whom the chiefs who had first seen it could depend; and the word of Onegisus satisfied the great mass of the people. Messengers, however, were despatched to Ellac, and the other children of the dead monarch, with all speed, by the chiefs of the Huns who had remained behind; but Ardaric and Valamir took every precaution in order to meet in arms, should it be needful, either the natural thirst for vengeance of the young monarch, or the first outbursts of characteristic insolence which his newly-acquired power might call forth.
Instant preparations also were made for rendering back unto the bosom of the earth the clay of that mighty being who had so long proved its scourge; and the commands of the two great chieftains enjoined that all which barbarian splendour could effect should be done to give magnificence to the interment of Attila.
Ere nightfall the messengers reached the camp of Ellac; and, had they found him there, he might have returned in time to discover the manner of his father's death; but Ellac had gone forth with a large train to enjoy one of the favourite sports of the Huns, a torchlight hunting in the neighbouring forests; and he returned not to his tents till the dawn of the following day. Ere midday, however, he had reached the pavilion where all that remained of Attila reposed; but, by that time, the body was enclosed in a triple coffin, of iron, of silver, and of gold; and if he then entertained a suspicion, which he probably did, the aspect of the united Gepidæ and Goths taught him to restrain any expression that might bring on the struggle which all men saw must ultimately come, before he had rendered himself certain of the support of all the tribes of Huns, and prepared all the resources of his nation.
That support was doubtful; those resources were by him untried. Ellac stood beneath the crimson tent under which they had laid the body of Attila, and gazed upon the golden coffin of his mighty father; but no voice hailed him successor to his power!
[CHAPTER XXIII.]
THE PARTING FOR EVER.
A second, a third day had passed, and it was night; and, kneeling humbly before a small black cross, with tears continually streaming from her eyes, was that fair girl whose unhappy fate had led her from the sweet tranquillity of the domestic home--the home which love, and fancy, and hope had taught her to prize as the brightest lot on earth--to scenes of strife, and turbulence, and toil, to cares unceasing, and to acts which, purchased by the agony of her own spirit and the blasting of her own hopes, had changed the fate and wrought the deliverance of a world.
It was night; and she wept and prayed alone. An hour more, and she was to be borne, guarded in safety by a strong band of warriors, from a camp where, with the light of the ensuing morning, a ceremony was to be performed which might well end in general bloodshed: and she wept and prayed in silence; wept the blighting of her dearest wishes; wept her own fate and the fate of him she loved; prayed forgiveness for an act she had been taught to consider righteous, and holy, and sanctified, but for which her own heart smote her, even though by it she had won her own deliverance. She prayed forgiveness for that act, heroic, mighty, beneficial as it was; and while the whole Christian world raised up the thankful hands, and praised God for their deliverance, she besought his pardon for the deed that had achieved it.
Solemn and sad was the scene presented by that tent, as there, still exquisite in beauty, she knelt before the cross; and the solitary lamp, casting its full light upon her, showed those graceful lines and lovely features too truly expressive of utter despair. After a while, she strove to dry the fountain of her tears; those tears, bitter as they were, had been a relief to her overloaded heart. She thought she heard a sound, and rose from before the cross. It was but to be caught in the arms of him she loved.
He pressed her to his bosom; and for a moment she lay there, while joy ecstatic--joy worth years of suffering--thrilled through her heart, and took away all power to speak, to think, or to resolve.