The Scarlet Banner Part 11

"How can you say that? He is the oldest Asding."

"After King Hilderic! And was he justly imprisoned and deposed?" asked Gundomar, doubtfully.

"Was not the whole affair a clever invention?" added Gundobad.

"Not by Gelimer! You do not mean to say that?" cried Thrasaric, threateningly.

"No! But perhaps by Verus."

"Yes; all sorts of rumors are afloat. There is said to have been a letter of warning."

"No matter. If your saintly devotee should discover this festival--"

"Then woe betide us! He would deal with you as--"

"He did at the time you wanted to wed your little bride without the aid of the priest," cried Modigisel, laughing.

"I shall be grateful to him all my life for having struck me down then!

Eugenias are not to be stolen; we must woo them gently." Nodding to the young girl, he covered her little head and veil with his huge right hand and pressed it tenderly to his broad breast; a radiant glance from the large dark antelope eyes thanked him.

But Modigisel had also discovered the charm which such an expression bestowed upon the innocent, childlike features; his gaze rested admiringly upon Eugenia. The latter raised herself and whispered in her lover's ear.

"Gladly, my violet, my little bird," replied Thrasaric. "If you have promised, you must keep your word. Go with her to the entrance, brother. To keep one's promise is more necessary than to breathe."

The bride, attended by a group of her friends, was led by Thrasabad through one of the numerous cross pa.s.sages out of the Circus.

"Where is she going?" asked Modigisel, following her with ardent eyes.

"To the Catholic chapel close by, which they have made in the little temple of Vesta. She promised her father to pray there before midnight; she was forced to resign the blessing of her church at her marriage with a heretic." The bride's graceful figure now vanished through the vaulted doorway.

Modigisel began again: "Let me have your little maid, and take my big sweetheart; you will make almost a hundred pounds by the bargain. True, in this climate, one ought to choose a slender sweetheart. Is she a free Roman? Then I, too, will _marry_ her. I won't stop for that."

"Keep your plump happiness, and leave me my slender one. I have by no means drunk enough from the ocean to make that exchange."

Suddenly Astarte said loudly, "She's nothing but skin and bones!" Both men started; had she understood their low whispers? Again the full lips curled slightly, revealing her sharp eye-teeth.

"And eyes! those eyes!" replied Modigisel.

"Yes, bigger than her whole face. She looks like a chicken just out of the sh.e.l.l!" sneered Astarte. "What is there so remarkable about her?"

The beauty's round eyes glittered with a sinister light.

"A soul, Carthaginian," replied the bridegroom.

"Women have no souls," retorted Astarte, gazing calmly at him. "So one of the Fathers of the Church taught--or a philosopher. Some, instead of the soul, have water, like that pygmy. Others have fire." She paused, her breath coming quickly and heavily. Astarte was indeed beautiful at that moment, diabolically, bewitchingly beautiful; the exquisitely moulded, sphinxlike countenance was glowing with life.

"Fire," replied Thrasaric, averting his eyes from her ardent gaze,--"fire belongs to h.e.l.l."

Astarte made no answer.

"Eugenia is so beautiful because she is so chaste and pure," sighed Glauke, who had heard a part of the conversation. Gazing sorrowfully after the bride, she lowered her long lashes.

"No wonder that you hold her so firmly," Modigisel now said aloud in a jeering tone. "After your attempt to abduct her failed, you besought the old grain-usurer to give you the dainty doll as honorably as any Roman fuller or baker ever wooed the daughter of his neighbor, the cobbler."

"Yes," a.s.sented Gundomar; "but he has celebrated the wedding with as much splendor as though he were wedding the daughter of an emperor."

"The splendor of the wedding is more to him than the bride," cried Gundobad, laughing.

"Certainly not," said Thrasaric, slowly. "But one thing is true: since I have known that she is--that she will be mine--the frantic longing for her--yet no--that is not true either, I love her fondly. I suppose it is the wine! The heat! And so much wine!"

"Nothing but wine can help wine," laughed Modigisel. "Here, slaves, bring Bacchus a second Ocea.n.u.s."

Thrasaric instantly took a deep draught from the goblet.

"Well?" whispered Modigisel. "I will give you for make-weight to Astarte my whole fishpond full of muraense, besides the royal villa at Gra.s.se, for--"

"I am no glutton," replied Thrasaric, indignantly.

"I will add my villa in Decimum; true, I bequeathed it to Astarte; but she will consent. Won't you?"

Astarte nodded silently. Her nostrils were quivering.

Thrasaric shook his s.h.a.ggy head.

"I have more villas than I can occupy. Hark, the blast of a tuba. The races ought to begin. Here, little brother! He has gone. Horses, wine, and dice are the three greatest pleasures. I would give the salvation of my soul for the best horse in the world. But--" he took another draught, of wine--"the best horse! It has escaped me. Through my own folly! I would give ten Eugenias in exchange."

Astarte laid an ice-cold finger on Modigisel's bare arm; he looked up; she whispered something, and he nodded in pleased astonishment.

"The best horse? What is its name? And how did it escape you?"

"It is called--the Moorish name cannot be p.r.o.nounced; it is all _ch_!

We called it Styx. It is a three-year-old black stallion of Spanish breed, with a Moorish strain, reared in Cyrene. A short time ago, when the valiant king so eagerly began his preparations for war, the Moors were informed that we n.o.bles needed fine horses. Among many others, Sersaon, the grandson of the old chief Cabaon, came to Carthage; he brought of all the good horses the very best."

"Yes! we know them!" the Vandals a.s.sented.

"But among the very best the pearl was Styx, the black stallion! I cannot describe him, or I should weep for rage that he escaped me. The Moor who rode him, scarcely more than a boy, said that he was not for sale. As I eagerly urged him, he asked, grinning in mockery, an impossible price, which no one in his sober senses would pay,--an unreasonable number of pounds of gold; I have forgotten how many. I laughed in his face. Then I looked again at the magnificent animal, and ordered the slave to bring the money. I placed the leather bag at once in the Moor's hand; it was in the open courtyard of my house on the Forum of Constantine. Many other horses were standing there, and several of our mounted lancers were in the saddle, inspecting them as they were led up. Then, after I had closed the bargain, I said to my brother with a sigh: 'It's a pity to pay so much money. The animal is hardly worth it.' 'It is worth more, and you shall see!' cried the insolent Moor, as he leaped on the horse and dashed out of the gate of the courtyard. But he still held the purse in his hand."

"That was too much!" said Modigisel.

"The insolence enraged us all. We followed at once,--at least twenty men,--our best horses and riders, some on the splendid Moorish steeds we had just purchased. At the corner of the street he was so near that Thrasabad hurled his spear at him, but in vain! Though at our cries people flocked from all the cross streets to stop him in the main one, there was no checking him. The guards at the southern gate heard the uproar; they sprang to close the doors, were in the act of shutting them, but the superb creature darted through like an arrow. We pursued for half an hour; by that time he had gained so much on us that we could just see him in the distance like an ostrich disappearing in the sands of the desert.

"Enraged, loudly berating the faithless Moor, we rode slowly home on our exhausted steeds. When we reached the house, there in my courtyard stood the Moor, leaning against the black horse; he had ridden in again at the western gate. Throwing the gold at my feet, he said: 'Now do you know the value of this n.o.ble animal? Keep your gold! I will not sell him.' He rode slowly and proudly away. So I lost Styx, the best horse in the world. Ha, is this a delusion? Or is it the heavy wine? Down below--in the arena--beside the other racers--"

"Stands Styx," said Astarte, quietly.

"To whom does the treasure belong?" shrieked Thrasaric, frantically.

"To me," replied Modigisel.

"Did you buy him?"