He then placed a number of warriors in front of the hollow in the lava, showed them the royal treasure and the corpse of Theodoric, raised upon a purple throne, and ordered them to pay attention while the fight for the pass was raging, and, on receiving a sign from Adalgoth--to whom and Wachis he had confided the last defence of the pass--at once to throw the throne and the coffers into the crater. The unarmed people pressed together round the lava cave--not a tear was seen, not a sigh was heard. Teja arranged his men into hundreds, and these hundreds into families, so that father and sons, brothers and cousins, fought at each other's side; an order of battle the terrible obstinacy of which the Romans had often experienced since the days of the Cimbrians and Teutons, of Ariovist and Armin. The natural construction of the last battlefield of the Goths necessitated of itself the old order of battle inherited from Odin--the wedge. The deep and close columns of the Byzantines now stood in orderly ranks from the shore of the sea to within a spear's throw from the mouth of the pass: a magnificent but fearful spectacle. The sun shone brightly upon their weapons, while the Goths still stood in the deep shadow of the rocks. Far away over the spears and standards of the enemy, the Goths beheld the lovely blue sea, the surface of which flashed with a silvery light. King Teja stood near Adalgoth, who carried the banner of Theodoric, at the mouth of the pass. All the poet was roused in the Hero-King. "Look!" he said to his favourite, "what more lovely place could a man have to die in? It cannot be more beautiful in the heaven of the Christian, nor in Master Hildebrand's Asgard or Breidablick. Up, Adalgoth! Let us die here, worthy of our nation and of this beauteous death-place." He threw back the purple mantle which he wore over his black steel armour, took the little harp upon his left arm, and sang in a low, restrained voice: "From farthest North till Rome--Byzant-- The Goths to battle call! In glory rose the Goths' bright star-- In glory shall it fall! Our swords raised high, we fight for fame; Heroes with heroes vie; Farewell, thou noble hero-race-- Up, Goths, and let us die!" And he shattered the still vibrating harp upon the rocks at his feet. "And now, Adalgoth, farewell! Would that I could have saved the rest of my people! Not here; but by an unobstructed retreat to the north. It was not to be. Narses would never grant it, and the last of the Goths cannot _beg_. Now let us go--to death!"