A more terrible comparison could not have been used than this of the dead body attracting vultures. But the warriors want to talk to him a little longer; they want a promise of war; they want to feel sure that, after this wedding, the King will lead them again to battle. They want to capture and sack Rome. And one of them cries out to the King in Latin, "Lead us to Rome!" He answers, he pledges them in wine, he promises that they shall have Rome to sack and burn; and they are happy--they bid him farewell with roars of joy. In the morning he will lead them to Rome, that is enough. In the morning what a tumult is in the camp, myriads and myriads of squadrons of cavalry, assembling for battle, chanting, cheering, roaring in the gladness of their expectation! But in the pavilion of Attila all is still silent. The chiefs know that their king is seldom late in rising; they are surprised that he does not appear. They make jests about the charm of his new bride, but they do not dare to call him, not for another hour, two hours, three hours, not until midday. At midday the chiefs lose patience, but still all is silent. At last, and only in the evening, after much calling in vain, they break in the door. 'Tis the room where thunder sleeps. Frenzy, as a wave to shore Surging, burst the silent door, And drew back to awful deeps, Breath beaten out, foam-white. Anew Howled and pressed the ghastly crew, Like storm-waters over rocks. Attila! my Attila! One long shaft of sunset red Laid a finger on the bed. . . . . . . . Square along the couch and stark, Like the sea-rejected thing Sea-sucked white, behold their King. Attila! my Attila! The King is dead! The warriors cannot believe it, do not want to believe. They see, and are struck with horror also because of the incalculable consequence of his death. But certainly he is dead. The red light of the setting sun illuminates his bloodless body lying in a pool of blood, for an artery burst. But what has become of Ildico--the wife? Name us that Huddled in the corner dark, Humped and grinning like a cat, Teeth for lips!--'tis she! she stares, Glittering through her bristled hairs. There is something there, in a dark corner of the room--something crouching like an animal, like a terrified cat, showing its teeth, raising its back, as in the presence of an attacking dog. Is it an animal? It is a woman, with her hair hanging down loose over her face, a woman, laughing horribly, because she is mad. They can see her eyes and her teeth glittering through her long hair. Did she kill him? Some think she did; others know that she did not. Some wish to kill her; cooler heads have resolved to defend her.