hatred had been uppermost with him.  It was the hap of war, and he was ready to take it patiently, and prepare himself for death as a brave Christian man, but not a hero or a martyr; and there was little hope either that a ransom so considerable as the rank of the parties would require could be raised without the aid of the Æmilii, or that, even if it were, the fierce old father would accept it.  The more civilised Goths, whose families had ranged Italy, Spain, and Aquitaine for two or three generations, made murder the matter of bargain that had shocked Æmilius; but this was an old man from the mountain cradle of the race, unsophisticated, and but lately converted.

In the dawn of the summer morning Bishop Sidonius celebrated the Holy Eucharist for the mournful family in the oratory, a vaulted chamber underground, which had served the same purpose in the days of persecution, and had the ashes of two tortured martyrs of the Æmilian household, mistress and slave, enshrined together beneath the altar, which had since been richly inlaid with coloured marble.

Afterwards a morning meal was served for Verronax and for the elder Æmilius, who intended to accompany him on his sad journey to Bordigala, where the King and the father of Odorik were known to be at the time.  Sidonius, who knew himself to have some interest with Euric, would fain have gone with them, but his broken health rendered a rapid journey impossible, and he hoped to serve the friends better by remaining to console the two women, and to endeavour to collect the wehrgeld in case it should be accepted.

The farewells, owing to the Roman dignity of Æmilius and the proud self-respect of the Arvernian, were more calm than had been feared.  Even thus, thought Sidonius, must Vercingetorix have looked when he mounted his horse and rode from his lines at Alesia to save his people, by swelling Cæsar’s triumph and dying beneath the Capitol.  Oh, absit omen!  Columba was borne up by hopes which Verronax would not dash to the ground, and she received his embrace with steadfast, though brimming eyes, and an assurance that she would pray without ceasing.

Lucius was not to be found, having no doubt gone forward, intending to direct his friend on his journey, and there part with him; but the saddest part of the whole was the passionate wailings and bemoanings of the remnants of his clan.  One of his attendants had carried the tidings; wild Keltic men and women had come down for one last sight of their Fearnagh MacFearccadorigh, as they called him by his true Gaulish name—passionately kissing his hands and the hem of his mantle, beating their breasts amid howls of lamentation, and throwing themselves in his path, as, with the high spirit which could not brook to be fetched as a criminal, he made his way to the gate.

Mounted on two strong mules, the only animals serviceable in the mountain paths, the Senator and Verronax passed the gate, Marcus walking beside them.

“We are beforehand with the Goth,” said Verronax, as he came out.

“Lazy hounds!” said Marcus.  “Their sentinels have vanished.  It would serve them right if thou didst speed over the border to the Burgundians!”

“I shall have a laugh at old Meinhard,” said Verronax.  “Little he knows of discipline.”

“No doubt they have had a great lyke wake, as they barbarously call their obsequies,” said the Senator, “and are sleeping off their liquor.”

“We will rouse them,” said the Arvernian; “it will be better than startling poor Columba.”

So on they moved, the wildly-clad, barefooted Gauls, with locks streaming in the wind, still keeping in the rear.  They reached the long, low farm-buildings belonging to Deodatus, a half-bred Roman Gaul, with a large vineyard and numerous herds of cattle.  The place was wonderfully quiet.  The Goths seemed to be indulging in very sound slumbers after their carouse, for nothing was to be seen but the slaves coming in with bowls of milk from the cattle.  Some of them must have given notice of the approach of the Senator, for Deodatus came to his door with the salutation, “Ave clarissime!” and then stood staring at Verronax, apparently petrified with wonder; and as the young chief demanded where was Meinhard, he broke forth—

“Does his nobility ask me?  It is two hours since every Goth quitted the place, except the dead man in the house of the widow Dubhina, and we are breathing freely for once in our lives.  Up they went towards the Æmilian villa with clamour and threats enough to make one’s blood run cold, and they must be far on their way to Bordigala Gergovia by this time.”

“His nobility must have passed through their midst unseen and unheard!” cried old Julitta, a hardworking, dried-up woman, clasping her sinewy, wrinkled hands; “a miracle, and no wonder, since our holy Bishop has returned.”

The excitable household was on the point of breaking out into acclamation, but Verronax exclaimed: “Silence, children!  Miracles are not for the bloodguilty.  If it be, as I fear, they have met Lucius and seized him in my stead, we must push on at once to save him.”

“Meinhard could not mistake your persons,” returned Æmilius; but while he was speaking, a messenger came up and put into his hand one of the waxen tablets on which notes were written—

L. ÆM.  VIC. TO M. ÆM. VIC.  S. Q.,—Pardon and bless thy son.  Meinhard assures me that I shall be accepted as equal in birth and accessory to the deed.  Remember Columba and the value of Verronax’s life, and let me save him.  Consent and hold him back.  Greet all the dear ones.—Vale.

The little tablet could hold no more than this—almost every word curtailed.  The Senator’s firm lip quivered at last as he exclaimed, “My brave son.  Thus does he redeem his father’s rash oath!”

Verronax, whose Roman breeding had held his impulsive Keltic nature in check as long as it was only himself that was in danger, now broke into loud weeping—

“My Lucius! my brother beloved! and didst thou deem Arvernian honour fallen so low that I could brook such a sacrifice?  Let us hasten on instantly, my father, while yet it is time!”

It would have been impossible to withhold him, and Marcus returned with the strange tidings, while his father and Verronax set forth with a few servants, mounted like themselves on mules, to reach the broad Roman road that led from Gergovia to Bordigala.  Three wild, barefooted Gauls of Verronax’s clan shook their heads at all his attempts to send them home, and went running along after him with the same fidelity as poor Celer, whom he had left tied up at the villa as his parting gift to little Victorinus, but who had broken loose, and came bounding to his master, caressing him with nose and tongue at their first halt.

There had been, as in all Roman roads, regular posting stations at intervals along the way, where horses and mules could be hired, but the troubles of the Empire, invasion, and scarcity had greatly disturbed the system.  Many of the stations were deserted, and at others either the whole of the animals, or all the fleeter ones, had been taken up by Meinhard and his convoy.  Indeed it almost seemed that not only Lucius was anxious not to be overtaken, but that Meinhard was forwarding his endeavours to consummate his sacrifice before the Arvernian could prevent it.

Hotly did Verronax chafe at each hindrance.  He would have dashed onwards with feverish head-long speed, using his own fleet limbs when he could not obtain a horse, but Æmilius feared to trust him alone, lest, coming too late to rescue Lucius, he should bring on himself the fury of the Goths, strike perhaps in revenge, and not only lose his own life and render the sacrifice vain, but imperil many more.

So, while making all possible speed, he bound the young Arvernian, by all the ties of paternal