The way was blocked with bales of merchandise: but the dancer bounded over them like a deer; while Philammon, half stunned by his fall, and blinded by his dripping locks, stumbled, fell, and lay, unable to rise. She held on for a few yards towards the torch-lit mob, which was surging and roaring in the main street above, then turned suddenly into a side alley, and vanished; while Philammon lay groaning upon the pavement, without a purpose or a hope upon earth.
Five minutes more, and Wulf was gazing over the broken parapet, at the head of twenty terrified spectators, male and female, whom Pelagia’s shriek had summoned.
He alone suspected that Philammon had been there; and shuddering at the thought of what might have happened, he kept his secret.
But all knew that Pelagia had been on the tower; all had seen the Amal go up thither. Where were they now? And why was the little postern gate found open, and shut only just in time to prevent the entrance of the mob?
Wulf stood, revolving in a brain but too well practised in such cases, all possible contingencies of death and horror. At last—
“A rope and a light, Smid!” he almost whispered.
They were brought, and Wulf, resisting all the entreaties of the younger men to allow them to go on the perilous search, lowered himself through the breach.
He was about two-thirds down, when he shook the rope, and called in a stifled voice, to those above—
“Haul up. I have seen enough.”
Breathless with curiosity and fear, they hauled him up. He stood among them for a few moments, silent, as if stunned by the weight of some enormous woe.
“Is he dead?”
“Odin has taken his son home, wolves of the Goths!” And he held out his right hand to the awestruck ring, and burst into an agony of weeping. … A clotted tress of long fair hair lay in his palm.
It was snatched; handed from man to man. … One after another recognised the beloved golden locks. And then, to the utter astonishment of the girls who stood round, the great simple hearts, too brave to be ashamed of tears, broke out and wailed like children. … Their Amal! Their heavenly man! Odin’s own son, their joy and pride, and glory! Their “Kingdom of heaven,” as his name declared him, who was all that each wished to be, and more, and yet belonged to them, bone of their bone, flesh of their flesh! Ah, it is bitter to all true human hearts to be robbed of their ideal, even though that ideal be that of a mere wild bull, and soulless gladiator. …
At last Smid spoke—
“Heroes, this is Odin’s doom; and the All-father is just. Had we listened to Prince Wulf four months ago, this had never been. We have been cowards and sluggards, and Odin is angry with his children. Let us swear to be Prince Wulf’s men and follow him tomorrow where he will!”
Wulf grasped his outstretched hand lovingly—“No, Smid, son of Troll! These words are not yours to speak. Agilmund son of Cniva, Goderic son of Ermenric, you are Balts, and to you the succession appertains. Draw lots here, which of you shall be our chieftain.”
“No! no! Wulf!” cried both the youths at once. “You are the hero! you are the Sagaman! We are not worthy; we have been cowards and sluggards, like the rest. Wolves of the Goths, follow the Wolf, even though he lead you to the land of the giants!”
A roar of applause followed.
“Lift him on the shield,” cried Goderic, tearing off his buckler. “Lift him on the shield! Hail, Wulf king! Wulf, king of Egypt!”
And the rest of the Goths, attracted by the noise, rushed up the tower-stairs in time to join in the mighty shout of “Wulf, king of Egypt!”—as careless of the vast multitude which yelled and surged without, as boys are of the snow against the windowpane.
“No!” said Wulf solemnly, as he stood on the uplifted shield. “If I be indeed your king, and ye my men, wolves of the Goths, tomorrow we will go forth of this place, hated of Odin, rank with the innocent blood of the Alruna maid. Back to Adolf; back to our own people! Will you go?”
“Back to Adolf!” shouted the men.
“You will not leave us to be murdered?” cried one of the girls. “The mob are breaking the gates already!”
“Silence, silly one! Men—we have one thing to do. The Amal must not go to the Valhalla without fair attendance.”
“Not the poor girls?” said Agilmund, who took for granted that Wulf would wish to celebrate the Amal’s funeral in true Gothic fashion by a slaughter of slaves.
“No. … One of them I saw behave this very afternoon worthy of a Vala. And they, too—they may make heroes’ wives after all, yet. … Women are better than I fancied, even the worst of them. No. Go down, heroes, and throw the gates open; and call in the Greek hounds to the funeral supper of a son of Odin.”
“Throw the gates open?”
“Yes. Goderic, take a dozen men, and be ready in the east hall. Agilmund, go with a dozen to the west side of the court—there in the kitchen; and wait till you hear my war-cry. Smid and the rest of you, come with me through the stables close to the gate—as silent as Hela.”
And they went down—to meet, full on the stairs below, old Miriam.
Breathless and exhausted by her exertion, she had fallen heavily before Philammon’s strong arm; and lying half stunned for a while, recovered just in time to meet her doom.
She knew that it was come, and faced it like herself.
“Take the witch!” said Wulf slowly—“Take the corrupter of heroes—the cause of all our sorrows!”
Miriam looked at him with a quiet smile.
“The witch is accustomed long ago to hear fools lay on her the consequences of their own lust and laziness.”
“Hew her down, Smid, son of Troll, that she may pass the Amal’s soul
