His words were obeyed instantly, for all perceived their truth—but what availed it? To hew down a dozen trees and batter down the village gates was but a moment’s work for the blood-thirsty hordes who swarmed around the building. The outer gate was shattered in a moment—the inner, frailer yet, gave at the first assault, and now no bulwark was left any longer to the Romans save in their own good swords and stalwart sinews! Bravely they fought—aye, desperately—heaping the marble floors with mangled carcasses, and dying, each man where he stood, where the sword smote or javelin pierced him, dauntless and undismayed. Long they fought, for each Roman slain cutting down ten barbarians—but by degrees they were borne back—back at the sword’s point, foot by foot—and marking every step by their own streaming gore. At the hour’s end but five were left—five, and all wounded, and one old: the father of the wretched Julia, Aurelius and his brother, and two young nobles of the province. Retreating, step by step, they were at last driven back into the bridal chamber—the altar stood there yet, and the great cross above it, and the priest clinging to the cross, and at his feet the bride, with her fair tresses all dishevelled and all her lovely comrades prostrate upon the ground around her. The door was barred within—brief respite, no defence—and the strong men leaned upon their weapons in despair and gazed on one another, and then from one another to the women. It was a sad and awful scene. A rush of heavy feet was heard without—a halt, and then a rustling sound, with now a clang of steel and now the clatter of a grounded spear, as if the multitude was getting silently into array and order—a pause, and a loud cry!—“Attila!—Attila!—the king!” Then came a slow and measured footstep striding up to the door—one short and heavy blow upon the pannel, as with a sword’s hilt—and a stern, grave voice exclaimed “Open!” “I will,” answered Aurelius, “they would destroy it in an instant—it is but one chance in a myriad, but best trust to his mercy.” With the words he drew back bar after bar, and threw the door wide open—and there! there on the very threshold, with his swart cicatrized features, and short, square, athletic form, sheathed in scale armor of a strange device, with the hideous Charntean head gleaming out grim and awful from his breastplate, and the strange sword—all iron, hilt and blade, and guard and scabbard—his weapon and his God, firmly grasped in his right hand, but as yet bloodless—there stood the dreadful Hun! “Death,” he exclaimed—“Death to all who resist,” in tones singularly deep and stern and solemn—“Mercy to those who yield them!” “Do with _us_ as thou wilt, great king,” returned Aurelius steadily, lowering as he spoke his sword’s point—“but spare our women’s honour!” “Down with thy weapon, or die, Roman!” thundered the monarch, striding forward as he spoke and raising his sword high. “The terms, great Attila?”