The Goths hurried to the knot of struggling men; but before they could reach them, the conjurer, who had broken from his adversaries, sprang out of the tumbling group, and, with a last effort, darted straight off in the direction of the two women--followed by the Italians. What a sight! The Gallic tunic of the poor conjurer hung in rags from his body; his false yellow hair was torn off his head, and beneath appeared locks of glossy black; the white hue of his neck ended in a chest the colour of bronze. With a last exertion of strength he reached the women, and recognised Mataswintha. "Protect me, save me, white goddess!" he cried, and fell at her feet. The Italians had already reached him, and the nearest raised his knife. But Mataswintha spread her blue mantle over the fallen man. "Back!" she cried with majesty. "Leave him. He is under the protection of the Queen of the Goths!" The livery-servants fell back abashed. "Indeed!" at last said the one with the dagger, "is this dog and son of a dog to go unpunished? and five of us lie half dead on the ground, and I have three teeth too few? Is there to be no punishment?" "He is punished enough," said Mataswintha, pointing to the deep gash on the neck of the conjurer. "And all this fuss about a worm!" cried another. "About a snake that escaped from his knapsack, which we tried to kill with stones." "See, he has hidden the viper in his bosom. Take it from him!" "Kill him!" screamed the others. But now a number of soldiers came up, and procured respect for their Queen, pushing back the Italians, and forming a circle round the wounded man. Aspa looked at the latter attentively, and suddenly cast herself down beside him, crossing her arms on her bosom. "What is the matter, Aspa? Rise!" said her mistress, much astonished. "Oh, mistress!" stammered Aspa, "the man is no Gaul! He is one of my people. He prays to the Snake-God. Look at his brown skin--as brown as Aspa's! And here--here is writing; letters are tattooed upon his breast; the sacred hieroglyphics of my country!" she cried with delight. And, pointing with her finger, she began to read. "Why this disguise?" asked Mataswintha. "It is suspicious. He must be arrested." "No, no, mistress," whispered Aspa; "dost thou know what these letters mean? No other eye than mine can decipher them for thee." "Well?" asked Mataswintha. "They say," whispered Aspa, "Syphax owes a life to his master, Cethegus the Prefect.' Yes, yes, I know him; it is Syphax, the son of Hiempsal, a friend of my family. The gods have sent him to us." "Yes, Aspa," said Mataswintha, "the gods have sent him: the gods of revenge! Goths, lay this wounded man upon a bier, and follow my slave to the palace. Henceforward he shall be employed in my service." CHAPTER IV.