l
go up thither. Where were they now? And why was the little postern gate
found open, and shut only just in time to prevent the entrance of the
mob?

Wulf stood, revolving in a brain but too well practised in such cases,
all possible contingencies of death and horror. At last--

'A rope and a light, Smid!' he almost whispered.

They were brought, and Wulf, resisting all the entreaties of the younger
men to allow them to go on the perilous search, lowered himself through
the breach.

He was about two-thirds down, when he shook the rope, and called in a
stifled voice, to those above--

'Haul up. I have seen enough.'

Breathless with curiosity and fear, they hauled him up. He stood among
them for a few moments, silent, as if stunned by the weight of some
enormous woe.

'Is he dead?'

'Odin has taken his son home, wolves of the Goths!' And he held out
his right hand to the awe-struck ring, and burst into an agony of
weeping.... A clotted tress of long fair hair lay in his palm.

It was snatched; handed from man to man.... One after another recognised
the beloved golden locks. And then, to the utter astonishment of the
girls who stood round, the great simple hearts, too brave to be ashamed
of tears, broke out and wailed like children .... Their Amal! Their
heavenly man! Odin's own son, their joy and pride, and glory! Their
'Kingdom of heaven,' as his name declared him, who was all that each
wished to be, and more, and yet belonged to them, bone of their bone,
flesh of their flesh! Ah, it is bitter to all true human hearts to be
robbed of their ideal, even though that ideal be that of a mere wild
bull, and soulless gladiator....

At last Smid spoke--

'Heroes, this is Odin's doom; and the All-father is just. Had we
listened to Prince Wulf four months ago, this had never been. We have
been cowards and sluggards, and Odin is angry with his children. Let us
swear to be Prince Wulf's men and follow him to-morrow where he will!'

Wulf grasped his outstretched hand lovingly-- 'No, Smid, son of Troll!
These words are not yours to speak. Agilmund son of Cniva, Goderic son
of Ermenric, you are Balts, and to you the succession appertains. Draw
lots here, which of you shall be our chieftain.'

'No! no! Wulf!' cried both the youths at once. 'You are the hero! you
are the Sagaman! We are not worthy; we have been cowards and sluggards,
like the rest. Wolves of the Goths, follow the Wolf, even though he lead
you to the lan