The bridal feast was over—the bridal hymns were hushed—the banquet hall was left deserted—for in an inner chamber all hung with spotless white at a small altar placed beneath a cross gorgeous with gold and jewels stood Julia and Aurelius—the tender and solicitous mother and the gray headed noble father at her side—the priest of God before them, and all the joyous company hushed in mute awe, that arose not from fear—and the faith of that bright pair was plighted, and the gold ring set on the slender finger, and the last blessing was pronounced, and they two were made one. Just in that breathless pause as the words of the priest ceased to sound, although their cadences were still ringing in the ears of all who heard them—there was a sudden rustle heard without, and a dread cry. “The city!—the city!—Singidurum!” So piercing was the cry, that not one of all those who heard it, but felt that something dreadful was in progress—in an instant the whole company rushed out into the portico—and lo! one flood of crimson flame was soaring up the sky from what an hour before had been a beauteous and a happy town—and a confused din of roars and howls burst with the shrill yells of despairing women, the clash of arms, and the thundering downfall of towns, palaces, and temples, filled the whole atmosphere with fiendish uproar. Scarce had they time to mark, or comprehend what they beheld, before, about them, and around, on every side came the thick beating hoofs—and in another moment they might see the myriads of the Hunish horsemen circling them in on every side, and cutting off all hope of flight or rescue with a dark living rampart. “Romans,” Aurelius shouted—“Romans to arms—for life, and liberty, and vengeance!”