“O my Verronax, why hast thou come?  The bitterness of death was past!  The gates were opening.”

Meanwhile AEmilius had reached Euric, and had made him understand the substitution.  Old Odo knew no Latin, and it was the King, an able orator in both tongues, who expounded all in Gothic, showing how Lucius AEmilius had offered his life in the stead of his friend, and how Verronax had hurried to prevent the sacrifice, reiterating, almost in a tone of command, the alternative of the wehrgeld.

The lites all burst into acclamations at the nobility of the two young men, and some muttered that they had not thought these Romans had so much spirit.

Euric made no decision.  He did full justice to the courage and friendship of the youths, and likewise to the fact that Odorik had provoked the quarrel, and had been slain in fair fight; but the choice lay with the father, and perhaps in his heart the politic Visigoth could not regret that Arvernia should lose a champion sure to stand up for Roman or national claims.

Odo listened in silence, leaning on his axe.  Then he turned his face to the bystanders, and demanded of them—­

“Which of them is the bolder?  Which of them flinched at my axe?”

The spectators were unanimous that neither had blenched.  The slender lad had presented himself as resolutely as the stately warrior.

“It is well,” said Odo.  “Either way my son will be worthily avenged.  I leave the choice to you, young men.”

A brief debate ended in an appeal to the Senator, who, in spite of all his fortitude, could not restrain himself from groaning aloud, hiding his face in his hands, and hoarsely saying, “Draw lots.”

“Yes,” said Euric; “commit the judgment to Heaven.”

It was hailed as a relief; but Lucius stipulated that the lots should be blessed by a Catholic priest, and Verronax muttered impatiently—­

“What matters it?  Let us make an end as quickly as may be!”

He had scarcely spoken when shouts were heard, the throng made way, the circle of lites opened, as, waving an olive branch, a wearied, exhausted rider and horse appeared, and staggering to the foot of the throne, there went down entirely spent, the words being just audible, “He lives!  Odorik lives!”

It was Marcus AEmilius, covered with dust, and at first unable to utter another word, as he sat on the ground, supported by his brother, while his father made haste to administer the wine handed to him by an attendant.

“Am I in time?” he asked.

“In time, my son,” replied his father, repeating his announcement in Gothic.  “Odorik lives!”

“He lives, he will live,” repeated Marcus, reviving.  “I came not away till his life was secure.”

“Is it truth?” demanded the old Goth.  “Romans have slippery ways.”

Meinhard was quick to bear testimony that no man in Arvernia doubted the word of an AEmilius; but Marcus, taking a small dagger from his belt, held it out, saying—­