by me
from generation to generation. I should tremble to see in my children's
faces the features of their accursed father. So I remained unwedded."

"What a gloomy idea!" Gibamund whispered in the ear of his beautiful
wife, as, drawing her tenderly toward him, he kissed her cheek.

"I suppose it was at that time," said Hilda, "that you composed that
denunciation which condemns all love as sin?"

"Maledictus amor sextus,
Maledicta oscula,
Sint amplexus maledicti
Inferi ligamina."

"It is all untrue," she added smiling, warmly returning her husband's
embrace.

But Gelimer went on: "The result will teach us the truth--on the Day of
Judgment. The care of the boy cured me. I again turned to the practice
of arms; it would soon be necessary to teach my pupil their use. But a
still greater aid was the duty--"

"You owed your people and your native land," interrupted Hilda.

"Yes," added Gibamund. "At that time the Moors had proved greatly
superior to our effeminate troops, and especially our unwarlike King.
We were defeated in every battle, and could no longer hold our own in
the open field against the camel-riders. Our frontier was harried year
after year. Nay, the robbers of the desert grew bold enough to
penetrate deep into the heart of the proconsular province, till they
made forays to the very gates of Carthage. Then I was summoned to
become the shield of my people; I did so gladly. The old love of arms
waked anew, and I said to myself: 'No vain, sinful greed for fame urges
you on.'"

"What? Is heroism called a sin?" cried Hilda. "You were fighting only
to defend your people."

"Ah, but he found much pleasure in it," replied Gibamund, smiling at
his wife. "And he often pursued the Moors farther into the desert, and
in following them killed many more with his own hand than the
protection of Carthage would have required."

"May Heaven pardon all that I did beyond what was necessary," said
Gelimer, in a troubled tone. "The thought, 'It is a sin,' often
paralyzed my arm, even in the midst of battle. Often, too, I was
overwhelmed by the old melancholy, the torturing fear of sin, the
consciousness of guilt, the burden of the curse of the burning woman,
the words piercing to the quick: 'All is sin, all is vanity!'

"Then came the day which brought to me the most terrible
ordeal,--tortures little less than those suffered by the Catholics, the
parents and relatives of V