ached him from the side. The boy did not see the brand
uplifted above him; Bissula, forgetting all danger to herself, shrieked
loudly. Then the soldier sank. For an instant she saw, by the glare of
the torch, Adalo, who had rescued his brother, and she rejoiced at the
spectacle, but the torch went out as its bearer fell. The brothers
vanished from her sight. Directly afterwards she heard in loud, wailing
tones the cry of many voices: "Adalo! alas for Adalo! alas for the
Adeling!"

Horror and anxiety for her friend made her heart sink: she could get no
further glimpse of him. And, from the camp behind her, a fresh uproar
arose, which swiftly drew nearer. It was Hariowald, now with his men
driving the last Batavians (Bissula recognized Rignomer) from the
fortress of wagons, and the scattered Romans flying down all the
streets through the Decumanian Gate. She attempted to join the pursuing
Alemanni, but their arrows and spears flew close about her; a stone
from a sling fell crashing against a beam above her head and,
terrified, she threw herself face downward on the ground and let the
dangerous stream of foe and friend roar past her into the distance.

The camp soon became still, absolutely still. Outside the gate, too,
the din of battle swept very swiftly down the hill toward the lake.
Bissula rose again and looked through the gate. In the distance she
saw, though indistinctly, the surging ranks pour down the slope; she
could scarcely distinguish the figures, but her people's shouts of
victory rang loudly in her ears. A rush of joy filled her heart and she
cried exultingly: "Victory! Liberty! Hurrah!" But the next instant she
said to herself reproachfully: "And Ausonius! And brave Saturninus!
Alas! and Adalo!"

Her grief, her terrible anxiety for her lover drove her from her
hiding-place even more powerfully than the longing for her liberation,
and she resolved to venture across the dreaded battlefield, lately so
full of uproar, now so horribly silent. The camp was deserted. At least
it seemed so, as Bissula, stealing cautiously around the corner of the
barricade, looked in every direction. She thought, too, of the faithful
bear: "Bruna! Here, Bruna!" she called up the streets of the camp as
loudly as she could; but no Bruna came. Though the burning tents still
gave light enough, she saw no upright figure near, either of friend or
foe. Only on the ground, here and there, some movement still remained.

A dead Celt lay