directly across one of the streets, his helmet on his
head and the spear still in his rigid hand. With horror--she had never
before witnessed death, being only a few years old when she lost her
parents--she cautiously stepped over the broad mailed breast, holding
up her garments that they might not brush against the corpse. "Three
bounds," she thought, "and I shall reach the gate." She had already
raised her foot for a swift run, when a groan behind her reached her
ear. Involuntarily, though shaken by fresh fear, she looked around.
Terrible things exert a strange compulsion which at the same time
attracts and repels. A Roman severely wounded lay a few steps behind
her, his head resting on a tent-pole, his right arm propped on the
ground, and his left pressed against the gaping wound in his breast. He
must have seen the girl, for, instead of moaning, he now called, in
Latin, "Water, oh, pray give me some water!"

Bissula shrank in fear; besides, she dreaded to turn from the liberty
beckoning outside the gate to go back into the camp. But her woman's
heart conquered the terror, and she glanced around her to see if she
could find means to quench the sufferer's thirst. Then her eyes fell on
one of the huge tuns which, according to Roman camp regulations, always
stood filled with water beside each gate. It was so high that she could
scarcely look into it, but she pulled herself to the top with both
hands and saw that there was plenty of water inside. But where was she
to find a cup? All sorts of utensils lay scattered around, but neither
goblet nor vessel.

Then a thought flashed through her mind which at first made her
shudder. But she bravely conquered the girlish fright, went to the dead
Celt, loosed, with trembling fingers, the iron band which fastened the
helmet under his chin, drew it carefully, tenderly, as if the dead
could feel, from his head, then hastened to the cask, half filled it,
and carried it with both hands, the long horse-hair of the crest
trailing on the ground. She walked slowly, that she might not spill too
much, to the groaning man, who watched her movements with glassy eyes
and opened his mouth eagerly. Kneeling by his side, she held the helmet
sideways to his bearded lips. He drained it to the last drop, and with
a long sigh of relief, laid his head back on the pole and said, with an
effort:

"Are you a Christian?"

The girl shook back her red locks defiantly: "Freya and Frigga protect
me."

"