She was
hastening to take possession of the villa at Decimum, which Modigisel
bequeathed to her long ago."

"What a woman!"

"Nay, no woman,--a monster, but a beautiful one. So the horse remained
in my possession. But I--will not keep the animal. Then I thought that
of all the women of our nation you are the most glorious--I mean, the
best rider. And I believe war will soon break out, and, from what I
know of you, I believe that nothing will prevent you from going with
Gibamund to the field."

"There you are right," laughed Hilda, with sparkling eyes.

"Then I begged Gibamund--and so the stallion is yours, do you see? He
is just being led into the courtyard."

"A magnificent creature indeed! I thank you."

"So that is the story of the horse."

He spoke very sorrowfully, for he did not know what to say next.

Hilda came to his assistance.

"And your brother?" she asked.

"Unhappily he has disappeared. I have searched for him everywhere--in
his own villas and mine. There was not a trace. The body of the
beautiful Ionian who--died that night, could not be found either. There
was no sign of it in the city or country. It is possible that he left
Carthage by ship. So many have gone out of the harbor during these last
few days, even--" he suddenly turned pale--"even bound for Sicily."

"Yes," said Hilda, carelessly, glancing out of the window. "The horse
is a splendid animal."

"She is changing the subject," thought Thrasaric. "Then it is so."

"Several sailed also for Syracuse," he went on, watching her intently.

The Princess leaned from the casement. "Only one, so far as I know,"
she replied indifferently.

"Then it is true," cried the Vandal, suddenly, in despair. "She has
gone. She has gone to her father in Syracuse. She has deserted me
forever! O Eugenia! Eugenia!" Pressing his arm against the window-frame
in bitter anguish, he laid his face on it.

So he did not see how violently the curtains at the door of the next
room swayed to and fro.

"O Princess," he cried, controlling himself, "it is only just. I ought
not to blame you, I must praise you for having snatched her from my
arms on that wild night. Nor can I condemn her for casting me off. No,
do not try to comfort me. I know I am not worthy of her. It is my own
fault. Yet not mine alone; the women--that is, the maidens of our
nation--are also to blame. Do you look at me in wonder? Well, then,
Hilda, have you taken a single Vandal girl to your h