"May Heaven pardon thee thy words!" interrupted the fair youth with
vivacity. "Have we not our King Theodoric, whom even his enemies call
the Great; the most magnificent hero, the wisest prince in the world?
Have we not this smiling land Italia, with all its treasures? What upon
earth can compare with the kingdom of the Goths?"

The old man, without heeding his questions, continued:

"Listen to me. The greatness and worth of King Theodoric, my beloved
master and my dear son, are best known by Hildebrand, son of Hilding.
More than fifty years ago I carried him in these arms, a struggling
boy, to his father, and said: 'There is an offspring of a strong
race--he will be a joy to thee.' And when he grew up I cut for him his
first arrow, and washed his first wound. I accompanied him to the
golden city of Byzantium, and guarded him body and soul. When he fought
for this lovely land, I went before him, foot by foot, and held the
shield over him in thirty battles. He may possibly, since then, have
found more learned advisers and friends than his old master-at-arms,
but hardly wiser, and surely not more faithful. Long ere the sun shone
upon thee, my young falcon, I had experienced a thousand times how
strong was his arm, how sharp his eye, how clear his head, how terrible
he could be in battle, how friendly over the cup, and how superior he
was even to the Greekling in shrewdness. But the old Eagle's wings have
become heavy. His battle-years weigh upon him; for he and you, and all
your race, cannot bear years like I and my play-fellows; he lies sick
in soul and body, mysteriously sick, in his golden hall down there in
the Raven-town. The physicians say that though his arm be yet strong,
any beat of his heart may kill him with lightning-like rapidity, and
with any setting sun he may journey down to the dead. And who is his
heir? who will then uphold this kingdom? Amalaswintha, his daughter;
and Athalaric, his grandson; a woman and a child!"

"The Princess is wise," said he with the helmet and the sword.

"Yes, she writes Greek to the Emperor, and speaks Latin with the pious
Cassiodorus. I doubt that she even thinks in Gothic. Woe to us, if she
should hold the rudder in a storm!"

"But I see no signs of storm, old man," laughed the torch-bearer, and
shook his locks. "From whence will it blow? The Emperor is again
reconciled, the Bishop of Rome is installed by the King himself, the
Frank princes are his nephews, the Italians a