"I do not think," said the honest man, "that the Lord of heaven can see it done. I am one of those who never like to say, 'All is over!' The proud ones, those who hold their heads high, like King Teja and Duke Adalgoth, certainly run constantly against the beams of fate. But we small people, who can stoop and bend, easily find a mouse-hole or a chink in the wall by which to escape. It is too vile! miserable! cruel! rascally!"--and each word was accompanied by a sounding stroke with his hammer. "I will not believe it! I cannot believe that hundreds of good women, pretty girls, lisping children, and stammering old men, must jump into the hellish fire of this accursed mountain! As if it were but a merry bonfire! As if they would come out at the other side safe and sound! I might just as well have let thee burn in the house at Fæsulæ. And not only thou must burn, but also our expected child, whom I have already named Witichis." "Or Rauthgundis," said Liuta, blushing, as she bent over her husband's shoulder and stopped his hammering. "Let this name admonish thee, Wachis! Think of our beloved mistress. Was she not a thousand times better than Liuta, the poor maid-servant? And would she have hesitated or refused to die on the same day with all her people?" "Thou art right, wife!" exclaimed Wachis, with a last furious stroke of his hammer. "Thou knowest I am a peasant, and peasants do not at all like to die. But if the heavens fall, they strike down peasants as well as others; and before it happens--ha-ha!--I will deal many a famous stroke! That would please Sir Witichis and Mistress Rauthgundis right well also. In honour of them--yes, thou art right, Liuta--we will live bravely--and, if it cannot be otherwise, bravely die!" CHAPTER IX. It was with most joyful surprise that the two tribunes, Licinius and Julianus, entered the tent of the Prefect after their interview with Narses. "Once again you have conquered, O Cethegus!" cried Licinius. "You have got the upper hand, Prefect of Rome," said Salvius Julianus. "I do not understand it, but Narses really abandons Rome to you." "Ha!" cried Piso, who had entered with the others, "that is your old Cæsarian luck, Cethegus! Your star, which has seemed to wane since this famous cripple's arrival, shines anew. It seems to me that sometimes his _mind_ suffers from attacks of epilepsy. For, with a sound mind, how could he quietly let you enter Rome? No! Quem deus vult perdere dementat! Now will Quintus Piso again wander through the Forum, and look into the book-stalls to see if the Goths have assiduously bought his 'Epistolas ad amabilissimum, carissimum pastorem Adalgothum et ejus pedum'--(Letters to the very amiable and greatly beloved shepherd-boy, Adalgoth, and his bludgeon)." "So you have composed in exile, like Ovidius?" asked Cethegus, smiling.