Near the throne stood the men of higher degree, all alike to join the King in his judgment, like the Homeric warriors of old, as indeed Sidonius had often said that there was no better comment on the Iliad than the meetings of the barbarians.

By the time AEmilius and Verronax had reached the spot, and gained an entrance in virtue of their rank and concern in the matter, Euric sat enthroned in the midst of the assembly.  He was far removed from being a savage, though he had won his crown by the murder of his brother.  He and the counts (comrades) around him wore the Roman garb, and used by preference the Latin speech, learning, arms, and habits, just as European civilisation is adopted by the Egyptian or Japanese of the present day.  He understood Roman jurisprudence, and was the author of a code for the Goths, but in a case like this he was obliged to conform to national customs.

There he sat, a small, light-complexioned man, of slighter make than those around him, holding in his hand a scroll.  It was a letter from Sidonius, sent beforehand by a swift-footed mountaineer, and containing a guarantee for 1200 soldi, twice the price for a Goth of ordinary rank.  On the one side stood, unbound and unguarded, the slender form of Lucius; on the other a gigantic old Visigoth, blind, and with long streaming snowy hair and beard, his face stern with grief and passion, and both his knotted hands crossed upon the handle of a mighty battle-axe.

The King had evidently been explaining to him the terms of the Bishop’s letter, for the first words that met the ear of AEmilius were—­

“Nay, I say nay, King Euric.  Were I to receive treble the weight of gold, how should that enable me to face my son in the halls of Odin, with his blood unavenged?”

There was a murmur, and the King exclaimed—­

“Now, now, Odo, we know no more of Odin.”

“Odin knows us no more,” retorted the old man, “since we have washed ourselves in the Name of another than the mighty Thor, and taken up the weakly worship of the conquered.  So my son would have it!  He talked of a new Valhal of the Christian; but let him meet me where he will, he shall not reproach me that he only of all his brethren died unavenged.  Where is the slayer?  Set him before me that I may strike him dead with one blow!”

Lucius crossed himself, looked upwards, and was stepping forwards, when Verronax with a shout of ‘Hold!’ leapt into the midst, full before the avenger’s uplifted weapon, crying—­

“Slay me, old man!  It was I who killed thy son, I, Fearnagh the Arvernian!”

“Ho!” said Odo.  “Give me thine hand.  Let me feel thee.  Yea, these be sinews!  It is well.  I marvelled how my Odorik should have fallen by the soft Roman hand of yonder stripling; but thou art a worthy foe.  What made the priestling thrust himself between me and my prey?”

“His generous love,” returned Verronax, as Lucius flung himself on his neck, crying—­