s acted; never hoped, but always dared!

At Regeta, before Rome, after the fall of Ravenna, and again before
Rome--what had he not accomplished! What did not the kingdom owe to his
efforts! And he would receive no thanks.

When Witichis had offered him the dignity of a duke, gold, and land, he
had rejected the offer as an offence.

Lonely, silent, and melancholy, he walked through the streets of Rome,
the last shadow in the light of Totila's presence. He stood next to the
King's throne, with his black eyes ever lowered to the ground. He stole
away without a word from the royal table. He never laid aside his
armour or weapons.

Only when in action did he sometimes laugh; when, with contempt of
death, or the temerity which courts it, he sprang amid the spears of
the Byzantines--then only did he seem to feel at ease, then all his
being was life, movement, and fire.

It was known to all the nation--and Totila specially had known it from
his boyhood--that this melancholy hero possessed the gift of song.

But since his return from captivity in Greece, no one had ever been
able to persuade him to sing one of his glowing and inspiring songs;
and yet every one knew that his little triangular harp was his constant
companion in war or peace, inseparable as his sword. At the moment of
attack he was sometimes heard to sing wild snatches of song to the
measure of the Gothic horns. And whoever followed him into the
wilderness of white marble and green bushes, among the old Roman ruins,
where he was fond of passing his nights, might sometimes hear him play
some long-forgotten melody, accompanying it with dreamy words. But if
any one--which was seldom the case--ventured to ask what he wanted, he
turned silently away.

Once, after the taking of Rome, he replied to a similar question put by
Guntharis, by the words, "The head of the Prefect!"

The only person whose company he affected was Adalgoth, to whom he had
lately attached himself.

The young shepherd had been raised to the office of herald and
cup-bearer to the King, as a reward for his bold act at the storming of
the Tiber shore.

He had brought with him, though little schooled, a decided gift for
song. Teja was pleased with his genius; and it was reported that he
secretly taught him his superior art, though they suited each other as
little as night and morning.

"It is just on that account," said Teja, when his brave cousin Aligern
once remarked this to him, "somethi