ill you shame your people--your _dead_
people--still more?"

"Vanity," he answered dully. "Vanity speaks from your lips! All that
you are thinking is sinful, vain, arrogant."

"Why do you do this so suddenly? You have held out for months."

"Verus!" groaned the King. "God has abandoned me; my guardian spirit
has betrayed me. I am condemned on earth, and in the world beyond the
grave. I can do nothing else!"

"Yes. Here, Gelimer, here is your sharp sword."

Stooping, she tore it from the sheath which lay with the sword-belt at
the foot of the steps.

"'The dead are free' is a good motto."

But Gelimer shook his head.

"Vanity. Pride of heart. Pagan sin. I am a Christian. I will not kill
myself. I will bear my cross--as Christ bore His--until I sink beneath
it."

Hilda flung the sword clanking at his feet and turned from him without
a word.

"Where are you going? What do you mean to do?"

"Do you suppose I loved less truly and deeply and fervently than that
delicate Greek child? I come, my hero and my husband."

She walked across to a building now turned into a stable, the former
curia of Medenus, where, a short time before, many horses had stamped.
Only Styx, the stallion, now stood in it. Hilda grasped his mane, and
the wise, faithful animal followed like a lamb. The Princess went with
the horse to the hut. It hung back a moment before following her into
the narrow inclosure, which was dimly lighted by a pine torch in an
iron ring by the door.

"Come in," Hilda said coaxingly, drawing the horse gently after her.
"It will be better for you too. You will perish miserably. Your beauty
and your strength have gone. And after serving love in that brave ride
through the battle, the enemy shall not seize you and torment you with
base labor. What says the ancient song:

"Heaped high for the hero
Log on log laid they:
Slain, his swift steed
Shared the warrior's death.
And, gladly, his wife,
Nay, alas! his widow.
Burden of life's weary
Days sad and desolate
Would she, the faithful,
Bear on no farther."

She led the stallion to the side of the lofty pile of wood, where she
had laid the beautiful corpse, drew Gibamund's sword from its sheath,
and, searching with her hand for the throbbing of the heart, thrust the
blade into it with one powerful blow. Styx fell lifeless. Hilda threw
down the