And others answer, "No, no, he would be enraged if we deprived him of the glory of being the sole conqueror. But see! see! the enemy grows weak; now he totters, our king wields more quickly more mightily his arm! They sink! They fly! Victory! Victory! Great is the glory of our tribe, and of our mighty champion."
They raise the song of triumph and march to meet the royal conqueror, who leans upon his spear, and looks upon his advancing army without going forward to receive it.
He gives them a sign; they raise his helmet and loosen the coat of mail; and the hero sinks lifeless on his bloody shield.
Strong and deep is the sorrow of his people, and loud are the lamentations of woe.
At length one of the elders of the tribe exclaims, "Why do we lament the fallen? Is not death the destiny of all, and is there a more glorious death than that of the conqueror in the hour of victory? Let us make a grave for our king on the field of his victory, a grave that shall not only receive his ashes, but proclaim his victory to the most distant centuries."
And they did so. They made a funeral pile, and laid the victor, borne upon his shield, upon it, and the Huns formed a circle around the burning wood and sang the death-song, led by the bards.
"The people shall see their king no more. And the halls of his palace must remain for ever desolate. Never again shall the people hear his voice, but in their hearts he shall dwell for ever."
The flames grow less, the death-song ceases. In silence they gather the ashes in the sacred urn, lay the shield on the ground, the urn upon it, and his armour above it.
Many lay upon the sacred heap what is held most dear, hunting spear or battle-axe. And now the whole tribe sets hand to the work.
"We will build," they said, "a grave which neither man can destroy nor storms and tempests wash away."