LITMIR.BIZ

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that thou art free from the indignity of having any quartered upon thee.”

      “For which I thank Heaven,” responded the Senator.  “The nearest are on the farm of Deodatus, in the valley.  There is a stout old warrior named Meinhard who calls himself of the King’s Trust; not a bad old fellow in himself to deal with, but with endless sons, followers, and guests, whom poor Deodatus and Julitta have to keep supplied with whatever they choose to call for, being forced to witness their riotous orgies night after night.”

      “Even so, we are far better off than our countrymen who have the heathen Franks for their lords.”

      “That Heaven forbid!” said Æmilius.  “These Goths are at least Christians, though heretics, yet I shall be heartily glad when the circuit of Deodatus’s fields is over.  The good man would not have them left unblest, but the heretical barbarians make it a point of honour not to hear the Blessed Name invoked without mockery, such as our youths may hardly brook.”

      “They are unarmed,” said the Bishop.

      “True; but, as none knows better than thou dost, dear father and friend, the Arvernian blood has not cooled since the days of Caius Julius Caesar, and offences are frequent among the young men.  So often has our community had to pay ‘wehrgeld,’ as the barbarians call the price they lay upon blood, that I swore at last that I would never pay it again, were my own son the culprit.”

      “Such oaths are perilous,” said Sidonius.  “Hast thou never had cause to regret this?”

      “My father, thou wouldst have thought it time to take strong measures to check the swaggering of our young men and the foolish provocations that cost more than one life.  One would stick a peacock’s feather in his cap and go strutting along with folded arms and swelling breast, and when the Goths scowled at him and called him by well-deserved names, a challenge would lead to a deadly combat.  Another such fight was caused by no greater offence than the treading on a dog’s tail; but in that it was the Roman, or more truly the Gaul, who was slain, and I must say the ‘wehrgeld’ was honourably paid.  It is time, however, that such groundless conflicts should cease; and, in truth, only a barbarian could be satisfied to let gold atone for life.”

      “It is certainly neither Divine law nor human equity,” said the Bishop.  “Yet where no distinction can be made between the deliberate murder and the hasty blow, I have seen cause to be thankful for the means of escaping the utmost penalty.  Has this oath had the desired effect?”

      “There has been only one case since it was taken,” replied Æmilius.  “That was a veritable murder.  A vicious, dissolute lad stabbed a wounded Goth in a lonely place, out of vengeful spite.  I readily delivered him up to the kinsfolk for justice, and as this proved me to be in earnest, these wanton outrages have become much more rare.  Unfortunately, however, the fellow was son to one of the widows of the Church—a holy woman, and a favourite of my little Columba, who daily feeds and tends the poor thing, and thinks her old father very cruel.”

      “Alas! from the beginning the doom of the guilty has struck the innocent,” said the Bishop.

      “In due retribution, as even the heathen knew.”  Perfect familiarity with the great Greek tragedians was still the mark of a gentleman, and then Sidonius quoted from Sophocles—

         Compass’d with dazzling light,

         Throned on Olympus’s height,

      His front the Eternal God uprears

      By toils unwearied, and unaged by years;

         Far back, through ages past,

            Far on, through time to come,

         Hath been, and still must last,

            Sin’s never-changing doom.

      Æmilius capped it from Æschylus—

      But Justice holds her equal scales

         With ever-waking eye;

      O’er some her vengeful might prevails

         When their life’s sun is high;

         On some her vigorous judgments light

         In that dread pause ’twixt day and night,

            Life’s closing, twilight hour.

      But soon as once the genial plain

      Has drunk the life-blood of the slain,

      Indelible the spots remain,

            And aye for vengeance call.

      “Yea,” said the Bishop, “such was the universal law given to Noah ere the parting of the nations—blood for blood!  And yet, where should we be did not Mercy rejoice against Justice, and the Blood of Sprinkling speak better things than the blood of Abel?  Nay, think not that I blame thee, my dear brother.  Thou art the judge of thy people, and well do I know that one act of stern justice often, as in this instance, prevents innumerable deeds of senseless violence.”

      “Moreover,” returned the Senator, “it was by the relaxing of the ancient Roman sternness of discipline and resolution that the horrors of the Triumvirate began, and that, later on, spirit decayed and brought us to our present fallen state.”

      By this time the procession, which had long since passed from their sight, was beginning to break up and disperse.  A flock of little children first appeared, all of whom went aside to the slaves’ quarters except one, who came running up the path between the box-trees.  He was the eldest grandson and namesake of the Senator, a dark-eyed, brown-haired boy of seven, with the golden bulla hanging round his neck.  Up he came to the old man’s knee, proud to tell how he had scaled every rock, and never needed any help from the pedagogue slave who had watched over him.

      “Sawest thou any barbarians, my Victorinus?” asked his grandfather.

      “They stood thickly about Deodatus’s door, and Publius said they were going to mock; but we looked so bold and sang so loud that they durst not.  And Verronax is come down, papa, with Celer; and Celer wanted to sing too, but they would not let him, and he was so good that he was silent the moment his master showed him the leash.”

      “Then is Celer a hound?” asked the Bishop, amused.

      “A hound of the old stock that used to fight battles for Bituitus,” returned the child.  “Oh, papa, I am so hungry.”

      He really did say ‘papa,’ the fond domestic name which passed from the patriarch of the household to the Father of the Roman Church.

      “Thy mother is watching for thee.  Run to her, and she will give thee a cake—aye, and a bath before thy dinner.  So Verronax is come.  I am glad thou wilt see him, my father.  The youth has grown up with my own children, and is as dear to me as my own son.  Ah, here comes my Columba!”

      For the maidens were by this time returning, and Columba, robed in white, with a black veil, worn mantilla fashion over her raven hair, so as to shade her soft, liquid, dark eyes, came up the steps, and with a graceful obeisance to her father and the Bishop, took the seat to which the former drew her beside them.

      “Has all gone well, my little dove?” asked her father.

      “Perfectly well so far, my father,” she replied; but there was anxiety in her eyes until the gate again opened and admitted the male contingent of the procession.  No sooner had she seen them safely advancing up the box avenue than she murmured something about preparing for the meal, and, desiring a dismissal from her father, disappeared into the women’s apartments, while the old man smiled at her pretty maidenly modesty.

      Of the three men who were advancing, one, Marcus Æmilius, about seven or eight and twenty years of age, was much what the Senator must have been at his age—sturdy, resolute, with keen eyes, and crisp, curled, short black hair.  His younger brother, Lucius, was taller, slighter, more delicately made, with the same pensive Italian eyes as his sister, and a gentle, thoughtful countenance.  The tonsure had not yet touched his soft, dark brown locks; but

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