But the experience of late years, the sufferings and dangers he had endured since the death of Valerius and Miriam, the burning of Neapolis, the distress of Rome, the crimes committed at Ravenna and Castra Nova, and lately the cares and duties of royalty, had so completely matured the impatient and joyous youth, that he was now able to do full justice to his gloomy friend. And what had not this friend accomplished since the night when they had sworn brotherhood! When the others had become paralysed by suffering; when Hildebrand's impatience, Totila's enthusiasm, and the quiet steadfastness of Witichis, even old Hildebrand's icy fortitude, had wavered--Teja had never sighed, but always acted; never hoped, but always dared! At Regeta, before Rome, after the fall of Ravenna, and again before Rome--what had he not accomplished! What did not the kingdom owe to his efforts! And he would receive no thanks. When Witichis had offered him the dignity of a duke, gold, and land, he had rejected the offer as an offence. Lonely, silent, and melancholy, he walked through the streets of Rome, the last shadow in the light of Totila's presence. He stood next to the King's throne, with his black eyes ever lowered to the ground. He stole away without a word from the royal table. He never laid aside his armour or weapons. Only when in action did he sometimes laugh; when, with contempt of death, or the temerity which courts it, he sprang amid the spears of the Byzantines--then only did he seem to feel at ease, then all his being was life, movement, and fire. It was known to all the nation--and Totila specially had known it from his boyhood--that this melancholy hero possessed the gift of song. But since his return from captivity in Greece, no one had ever been able to persuade him to sing one of his glowing and inspiring songs; and yet every one knew that his little triangular harp was his constant companion in war or peace, inseparable as his sword. At the moment of attack he was sometimes heard to sing wild snatches of song to the measure of the Gothic horns. And whoever followed him into the wilderness of white marble and green bushes, among the old Roman ruins, where he was fond of passing his nights, might sometimes hear him play some long-forgotten melody, accompanying it with dreamy words. But if any one--which was seldom the case--ventured to ask what he wanted, he turned silently away. Once, after the taking of Rome, he replied to a similar question put by Guntharis, by the words, "The head of the Prefect!" The only person whose company he affected was Adalgoth, to whom he had lately attached himself. The young shepherd had been raised to the office of herald and cup-bearer to the King, as a reward for his bold act at the storming of the Tiber shore.