ho often, in the
midst of his reverie, addressed her with abrupt, but always
significant, words; whose poetical feelings--the feelings of
enthusiastic youth--she so completely understood and appreciated.

The tender tissue of this budding inclination was violently torn by the
catastrophe of her father's death, and not only gentle sorrow for the
murdered man, but glowing hatred of his murderers, took possession of
the passionate Roman girl's soul.

At all times Boethius, even when in the height of his favour at court,
had displayed a haughty condescension to the barbarism of the Goths,
and, since the catastrophe, all Camilla's companions--her mother, her
two brothers (who thirsted for vengeance), and the friends of the
house--breathed hatred and contempt, not only for the bloody murderer
and tyrant, Theodoric, but for all Goths, and particularly for the
daughter and grandson of the King, who, in their eyes, shared his guilt
because they had not hindered it.

So the maiden had almost ceased to think of Athalaric, and if he were
named, or if, as often happened, his picture entered into her dreams,
her hatred of the barbarians was concentrated in a feeling of the
greatest abhorrence towards him, perhaps just because, in the depths of
her heart, there lurked an involuntary suspicion of the secret
inclination which she nourished for the handsome and noble youth.

And now--now he had dared to lay a snare for her unsuspicious heart!

No sooner had she seen him step from the bushes--no sooner did she
recognise him, than she at once understood that it was he who had not
only enclosed the spring, but caused the alteration of the whole
estate. He, the hated enemy; he, the offspring of the cursed race which
had shed the blood of her father: the King of the Goths!

The joy with which, during the last few days, she had examined house
and garden, was now changed into bitterness. The deadly enemy of her
people, of her race, had dared to enrich her; to give her pleasure; to
make her happy; for him she had breathed thankful prayers to Heaven! He
had been bold enough to follow her steps, to listen to her words, to
fulfil her lightest wish; and at the bottom of her soul lay the
dreadful certainty that he loved her! The barbarian was insolent enough
to show it. The tyrant of Italy dared to hope that the daughter of
Boethius---- Oh, it was too much! and, sobbing violently, she buried
her head in the cushions of her couch, to which she h