"At the bulwark by the Forum." As Cethegus and Lucius were galloping off, they were met by a mass of mercenaries, Isaurians and Abasgians, who fled from the river. "Fly!" they cried. "Save the Prefect!" "Where is Cethegus?" "Here--to save you! Turn back. To the river!" He galloped on. The reflection of the burning masts plainly showed the way. Arrived at the river bank, Cethegus dismounted. Syphax placed his horse out of harm's way in an empty storehouse. "Torches!" cried Cethegus. "Into the boats! There lie a dozen ready. Bowmen, into the boats! Follow me! Lucius, go into the second boat. Row up to the chain. Place yourselves close to it. Whatever comes up the river--shoot! They cannot land below the bolt, the walls are too high and descend straight into the water. They _must_ come up here to the chain!" Already a few boats, filled with Goths, had ventured too near. Some caught fire at the burning masts; others were upset in the crush and confusion. One, which had approached within half an arrow's length of the chain, drove helplessly down the stream again: all the crew had been killed by the arrows of the Abasgians. "Do you see! There goes a boat of corpses! Resist to the last man. Nothing is lost! Bring torches and firebrands! Kindle the wharf there! Fire against fire!" "Look there, master!" cried Syphax, who never left the Prefect's side. "Aye, now comes the struggle!" It was a splendid sight. The Goths had seen that the bolt of chains could never be forced by small boats, so they had hewn away so much of the burning bolt of masts that a space was left in the middle just broad enough to permit the passage of a ship of war. But to try to pass up the river, exposed to the arrows of the Abasgians, between the flaming ends of the masts, and propelled only by their oars, might be more dangerous for the large vessel than for the "boat of corpses." The Goths hesitated and stopped just before the burning beams. But suddenly there arose a strong breeze from the south, rippling the surface of the water. "Do you feel the wind? It is the breath of the God of Victory! Set the sails! Now follow me, my Goths!" cried a joyful voice. The sails were set, and the wings of the royal galley, the "Wild Swan," spread wide to the breeze. It was a magnificent spectacle as the great vessel, all its canvas spread, and urged by a hundred oarsmen, came majestically up the river, illuminated by the terrible light from the burning masts and boats. With irresistible force the noble galley sailed up the stream. On both sides of the upper deck, high above the heads of the oarsmen on the lower deck, kneeled close rows of Gothic warriors, their shields forming a brazen roof to protect them from the arrows of the foe. Upon the bows of the ship an immense figure of a swan lifted high its snowy wings. Between these wings, upon the back of the swan, stood King Totila, his sword in his right hand.