The splendid and terrible description of the war horse, the Tartar horse, descending over the mountains into Europe, not frightened by things of flesh and bone, but like a thunder-cloud descending upon the cities below--reminds one of the description of Death in the Apocalypse--"I saw a pale horse; and he that sat upon him was called Death, and all hell followed after him." In the fifth century this scriptural text was not forgotten; Attila was often compared, with very good reason, to the rider of the pale horse. Where he conquered, there was nothing left; the ground became a desert, a waste of death, dry like the bed of a vanished sea. It is for another devastation, such another ride, that the warriors are clamouring at the wedding feast. But suddenly these men observe that Ildico never smiles, that she is terribly white like a ghost, and they do not like this. Who breathed on the king cold breath? Said a voice amid the host, He is Death that weds a ghost, Else a ghost that weds with Death? The barbarian idea of beauty is the red-faced, full-fleshed woman. They see no beauty in the fair, pale girl; she seems to them like a phantom. But Attila only laughs at the ominous exclamation; he knows that she is beautiful, and he orders her to fulfil her part of the wedding ceremony by pledging the guests in a cup of wine. Silent Ildico stood up. King and chief to pledge her well, Shocked sword sword and cup on cup, Clamouring like a brazen bell. Silent stepped the queenly slave. Fair, by heaven! she was to meet On a midnight, near a grave, Flapping wide the winding sheet. The last three lines of course are ironical--they represent the criticism of the warriors. Perhaps one may have said, "How beautiful she is! How fair." "Pair!" observes another, "she might seem beautiful in a graveyard at night, wrapped in a white shroud!" To the speaker, such beauty as that is the beauty of the dead; there is something sinister about it. He is hot all wrong; for in a little while the mightiest king in the world will die in the woman's arms. It is time for the bride to go to the bridal chamber; see how the women bow down to her as she passes by, not because they love her, but because she has become their queen! Death and she walked through the crowd, Out beyond the flush of light. Ceremonious women bowed Following her; 'twas middle night. . . . . . . . Attila remained. He remains, as the master of the feast, to speak a few last words to his faithful chiefs, but even while talking to them he feels impatient to visit his bride, not knowing that she is Death. . . . . . as a corse Gathers vultures, in his brain Images of her eyes and kiss Plucked at the limbs that could remain Loitering nigh the doors of bliss. Make the bed for Attila!