"What matters it? Let us make an end as quickly as may be!" He had scarcely spoken when shouts were heard, the throng made way, the circle of lites opened, as, waving an olive branch, a wearied, exhausted rider and horse appeared, and staggering to the foot of the throne, there went down entirely spent, the words being just audible, "He lives! Odorik lives!" It was Marcus AEmilius, covered with dust, and at first unable to utter another word, as he sat on the ground, supported by his brother, while his father made haste to administer the wine handed to him by an attendant. "Am I in time?" he asked. "In time, my son," replied his father, repeating his announcement in Gothic. "Odorik lives!" "He lives, he will live," repeated Marcus, reviving. "I came not away till his life was secure." "Is it truth?" demanded the old Goth. "Romans have slippery ways." Meinhard was quick to bear testimony that no man in Arvernia doubted the word of an AEmilius; but Marcus, taking a small dagger from his belt, held it out, saying-- "His son said that he would know this token." Odo felt it. "It is my son's knife," he said, still cautiously; "but it cannot speak to say how it was taken from him." "The old barbarian heathen," quoth Verronax, under his breath; "he would rather lose his son than his vengeance." Marcus had gathered breath and memory to add, "Tell him Odorik said he would know the token of the red-breast that nested in the winged helm of Helgund." "I own the token," said Odo. "My son lives. He needs no vengeance." He turned the handle of his axe downwards, passed it to his left hand, and stretched the right to Verronax, saying, "Young man, thou art brave. There is no blood feud between us. Odo, son of Helgund, would swear friendship with you, though ye be Romans." "Compensation is still due according to the amount of the injury," said the Senator scrupulously. "Is it not so, O King?" Euric assented, but Odo exclaimed-- "No gold for me! When Odo, son of Helgund, forgives, he forgives outright. Where is my son?" Food had by this time been brought by the King's order, and after swallowing a few mouthfuls Marcus could stand and speak. Odorik, apparently dead, had been dragged by the Goths into the hut of the widow Dubhina to await his father's decision as to the burial, and the poor woman had been sheltered by her neighbour, Julitta, leaving the hovel deserted. Columba, not allowing her grief and suspense to interfere with her visits of mercy to the poor woman, had come down as usual on the evening of the day on which her father and her betrothed had started on their sad journey. Groans, not likely to be emitted by her regular patient, had startled her, and she had found the floor occupied by the huge figure of a young Goth, his face and hair covered with blood from a deep wound on his head, insensible, but his moans and the motion of his limbs betraying life.