More Bywords. Charlotte M. Yonge
in a case like this he was obliged to conform to national customs.
There he sat, a small, light-complexioned man, of slighter make than those around him, holding in his hand a scroll. It was a letter from Sidonius, sent beforehand by a swift-footed mountaineer, and containing a guarantee for 1200 soldi, twice the price for a Goth of ordinary rank. On the one side stood, unbound and unguarded, the slender form of Lucius; on the other a gigantic old Visigoth, blind, and with long streaming snowy hair and beard, his face stern with grief and passion, and both his knotted hands crossed upon the handle of a mighty battle-axe.
The King had evidently been explaining to him the terms of the Bishop’s letter, for the first words that met the ear of Æmilius were—
“Nay, I say nay, King Euric. Were I to receive treble the weight of gold, how should that enable me to face my son in the halls of Odin, with his blood unavenged?”
There was a murmur, and the King exclaimed—
“Now, now, Odo, we know no more of Odin.”
“Odin knows us no more,” retorted the old man, “since we have washed ourselves in the Name of another than the mighty Thor, and taken up the weakly worship of the conquered. So my son would have it! He talked of a new Valhal of the Christian; but let him meet me where he will, he shall not reproach me that he only of all his brethren died unavenged. Where is the slayer? Set him before me that I may strike him dead with one blow!”
Lucius crossed himself, looked upwards, and was stepping forwards, when Verronax with a shout of ‘Hold!’ leapt into the midst, full before the avenger’s uplifted weapon, crying—
“Slay me, old man! It was I who killed thy son, I, Fearnagh the Arvernian!”
“Ho!” said Odo. “Give me thine hand. Let me feel thee. Yea, these be sinews! It is well. I marvelled how my Odorik should have fallen by the soft Roman hand of yonder stripling; but thou art a worthy foe. What made the priestling thrust himself between me and my prey?”
“His generous love,” returned Verronax, as Lucius flung himself on his neck, crying—
“O my Verronax, why hast thou come? The bitterness of death was past! The gates were opening.”
Meanwhile Æmilius had reached Euric, and had made him understand the substitution. Old Odo knew no Latin, and it was the King, an able orator in both tongues, who expounded all in Gothic, showing how Lucius Æmilius had offered his life in the stead of his friend, and how Verronax had hurried to prevent the sacrifice, reiterating, almost in a tone of command, the alternative of the wehrgeld.
The lites all burst into acclamations at the nobility of the two young men, and some muttered that they had not thought these Romans had so much spirit.
Euric made no decision. He did full justice to the courage and friendship of the youths, and likewise to the fact that Odorik had provoked the quarrel, and had been slain in fair fight; but the choice lay with the father, and perhaps in his heart the politic Visigoth could not regret that Arvernia should lose a champion sure to stand up for Roman or national claims.
Odo listened in silence, leaning on his axe. Then he turned his face to the bystanders, and demanded of them—
“Which of them is the bolder? Which of them flinched at my axe?”
The spectators were unanimous that neither had blenched. The slender lad had presented himself as resolutely as the stately warrior.
“It is well,” said Odo. “Either way my son will be worthily avenged. I leave the choice to you, young men.”
A brief debate ended in an appeal to the Senator, who, in spite of all his fortitude, could not restrain himself from groaning aloud, hiding his face in his hands, and hoarsely saying, “Draw lots.”
“Yes,” said Euric; “commit the judgment to Heaven.”
It was hailed as a relief; but Lucius stipulated that the lots should be blessed by a Catholic priest, and Verronax muttered impatiently—
“What matters it? Let us make an end as quickly as may be!”
He had scarcely spoken when shouts were heard, the throng made way, the circle of lites opened, as, waving an olive branch, a wearied, exhausted rider and horse appeared, and staggering to the foot of the throne, there went down entirely spent, the words being just audible, “He lives! Odorik lives!”
It was Marcus Æmilius, covered with dust, and at first unable to utter another word, as he sat on the ground, supported by his brother, while his father made haste to administer the wine handed to him by an attendant.
“Am I in time?” he asked.
“In time, my son,” replied his father, repeating his announcement in Gothic. “Odorik lives!”
“He lives, he will live,” repeated Marcus, reviving. “I came not away till his life was secure.”
“Is it truth?” demanded the old Goth. “Romans have slippery ways.”
Meinhard was quick to bear testimony that no man in Arvernia doubted the word of an Æmilius; but Marcus, taking a small dagger from his belt, held it out, saying—
“His son said that he would know this token.”
Odo felt it. “It is my son’s knife,” he said, still cautiously; “but it cannot speak to say how it was taken from him.”
“The old barbarian heathen,” quoth Verronax, under his breath; “he would rather lose his son than his vengeance.”
Marcus had gathered breath and memory to add, “Tell him Odorik said he would know the token of the red-breast that nested in the winged helm of Helgund.”
“I own the token,” said Odo. “My son lives. He needs no vengeance.” He turned the handle of his axe downwards, passed it to his left hand, and stretched the right to Verronax, saying, “Young man, thou art brave. There is no blood feud between us. Odo, son of Helgund, would swear friendship with you, though ye be Romans.”
“Compensation is still due according to the amount of the injury,” said the Senator scrupulously. “Is it not so, O King?”
Euric assented, but Odo exclaimed—
“No gold for me! When Odo, son of Helgund, forgives, he forgives outright. Where is my son?”
Food had by this time been brought by the King’s order, and after swallowing a few mouthfuls Marcus could stand and speak.
Odorik, apparently dead, had been dragged by the Goths into the hut of the widow Dubhina to await his father’s decision as to the burial, and the poor woman had been sheltered by her neighbour, Julitta, leaving the hovel deserted.
Columba, not allowing her grief and suspense to interfere with her visits of mercy to the poor woman, had come down as usual on the evening of the day on which her father and her betrothed had started on their sad journey. Groans, not likely to be emitted by her regular patient, had startled her, and she had found the floor occupied by the huge figure of a young Goth, his face and hair covered with blood from a deep wound on his head, insensible, but his moans and the motion of his limbs betraying life.
Knowing the bitter hatred in Claudiodunum for everything Gothic, the brave girl would not seek for aid nearer than the villa. Thither she despatched her male slave, while with her old nurse she did all in her power for the relief of the wounded man, with no inconsiderable skill. Marcus had brought the Greek physician of the place, but he had done nothing but declare the patient a dead man by all the laws of Galen and Hippocrates. However, the skull and constitution of a vigorous young Goth, fresh from the mountains, were tougher than could be imagined by a member of one of the exhausted races of the Levant. Bishop Sidonius had brought his science and sagacity to the rescue, and under his treatment Odorik had been restored to his senses, and was on the fair way to recovery.
On the first gleam of hope, Marcus had sent off a messenger, but so many of his household and dependents were absent