Close on the outskirts of the town they encountered the advance-guard of the host pressing on to the plunder of the city. The nimble brown men with the swift horses, which were as part of themselves, wheeled around them. Javelins were raised to hurl at them, spears were pointed, with the fierce howls and cries which seemed to have caught the tone of the wild beasts of the desert. Nor were these aimless, unmeaning menaces. Even while the procession advanced towards the enemy, Attila had given the order to cut them all down. Nemorius the young deacon fell pierced to death, with his golden Gospels still clasped to his breast; and many sank wounded or dead beside him. It seemed as if there would be a general massacre. But still the old Bishop Lupus pressed on, until he reached Attila; and then, something in the venerable figure and the worn, aged face, with its fire undimmed by the seventy years, something in the man himself, seemed suddenly to impress the fierce and haughty conqueror who had insulted emperors without fear, and had destroyed cities and devastated provinces without mercy. Attila gave order for the carnage to cease, and at a nod, at a look from him, javelins were lowered, spears were couched, the eager war-horses were held in check, and the procession with the white-haired Bishop in his priestly robes stood still, surrounded by the checked host of foes, confronting the Desolator of nations. It was as if a raging sea had been arrested at full tide, each foaming wave frozen into stillness in the curve of its breaking. What was said in that wonderful interview can scarcely be known. Few who could understand were near enough to hear. It was rumoured afterwards that Attila himself claimed to be “the Scourge of God,” and that the Bishop with lofty meekness replied— “If thou art the Scourge of God, chasten us as much as the Hand that holds thee permits.” Probably this was merely a dramatic echo in words of the deed done. Whatever was said, what was felt and done cannot be denied.