The very same day Theodahad and Gothelindis were crowned with the ancient crown of the Goths. A splendid banquet, at which all the Roman and Gothic dignitaries of the court and city were present, enlivened the old palace and the usually quiet gardens, with which we have become acquainted as the scene of Athalaric's and Camilla's loves. The revel lasted until deep into the night. The new King, no friend of the cup, or of barbaric revelry, had retired early. Gothelindis, on the contrary, sunned herself in the glory of her new rank. Proudly she sat upon her high seat, the golden circlet on her dark hair. She seemed all ear for the loud hurrahs with which, again and again, her own and her husband's names were greeted. But most of all she enjoyed the thought that these shouts would penetrate into the royal vault, where Amalaswintha, her hated and conquered rival, sat mourning by the sarcophagus of her son. Among the crowd of such guests as need only a full cup to make them merry, many a grave face was to be seen; many a Roman who would rather have seen the Emperor Justinian upon the throne at the head of the table; many a Goth who, in the present precarious condition of affairs, could not do homage to such a King as Theodahad without anxiety. To these last belonged Witichis, whose thoughts seemed far absent from the splendid scene around him. The golden cup before him stood untouched, and he scarcely noticed the loud exclamations of Hildebad, who sat opposite him. At last--the lamps were long since lit, and the stars stood in the sky--he rose and went into the greeny darkness of the garden. He slowly wandered through the taxus-walks, his eyes fixed upon the sparkling luminaries. His heart was with his wife, with his child, whom he had not seen for months. He wandered on unconsciously, until at last he came to the little Temple of Venus by the quay, with which we are already acquainted. He looked out over the gleaming sea. All at once something shining at his feet attracted his attention. It was the glittering of the moonlight upon a small Gothic harp, and upon a suit of mail. A man lay before him upon the soft grass, and a pale face was uplifted towards him. "Thou here, Teja? Thou wert not at the banquet?" "No; I was with the dead." "My thoughts, too, were absent; at home with wife and child," said Witichis. "With wife and child," repeated Teja, sighing. "Many asked after thee, Teja." "After me? Should I sit by Cethegus, who has robbed me of my honour, or by Theodahad, who took inheritance?" "Thine inheritance?" "At least he possesses it. And over the place where once stood my cradle he now drives his ploughshare." His head sank upon his breast, and both were silent. "And thy harp," at last said Witichis, "will it never be heard again? They praise thee as our nation's best minstrel!" "Like Gelimer, the last King of the Vandals, who was also the best singer of his nation.--But they shall never lead _me_ in triumph to Byzantium!"