use compulsion!"

"No? Why not? Seek her and win her, well or ill. I go to strengthen the
guard upon the walls. When I return I must have an answer."

Duke Guntharis went; and his brother made his way, sighing, into the
garden to seek Mataswintha.

This garden had been laid out by a skilled freedman from Asia Minor. In
the background he had formed a kind of park, the glades of which, free
from flowerbeds or terraces, were luxuriantly green. Through the
flowery grass and amongst the thick oleanders flowed a clear brook.

Close to the edge of the brook lay, stretched upon the turf, a youthful
female figure. She had thrown her mantle back from her right arm, and
seemed to be playing, now with the murmuring ripples, now with the
nodding flowers on the brink. She was buried in thought, and at
intervals threw a violet or a crocus dreamily into the water, watching
the blossoms with slightly opened lips, as they were swiftly borne away
by the running stream.

Close behind her kneeled a young girl in the dress of a Moorish slave,
busily weaving a wreath of flowers, which only wanted the finishing
touches. Every now and then she looked at her meditative mistress, to
see if she noticed her secret occupation. But the lady seemed quite
lost in reverie.

At last the pretty wreath was finished; with laughing eyes the slave
placed it lightly upon the splendid auburn hair of her mistress, and
bent forward over her shoulder to meet her eyes. But the lady had not
felt the flowers touch her head. Then the little slave became
impatient, and, pouting, said:

"But, mistress, by the palms of the Auras! of what art thou thinking?
With whom art thou?"

"With him!" whispered her mistress.

"By the white goddess! I can bear it no longer," cried the little
slave-girl, springing up; "it is too bad; I shall die of jealousy!
Thou not only forgettest me, thy gay gazelle, but also thine own
beauty--and all for this invisible man! Only look into the water and
see how beautifully thy bright hair contrasts with the dark violets and
white anemones."

"Thy wreath is pretty!" said Mataswintha, taking it off and throwing it
gently into the water. "What sweet flowers! Greet him from me!"

"Oh, my poor flowers!" cried the slave, looking after them; but she did
not dare to scold. "Only tell me," she cried, sitting down again beside
her mistress, "how all this is to end? We have been here now for many
days, we do not rightly know if as Queen or pris