"But the best part is, the decision will probably come before the Lion of the Romans arrives." "You are right: I would not willingly spur my horse against the wrathful lightning of his eyes." "Patience. Wait quietly. Wherever I send an arrow, we will rush; and Atta will hover, high in the air, above his children." Removing his helmet of thick black sheepskin, he threw it upward, singing softly: "Atta, Atta, booty grant us, Booty to thy much-loved children, Yellow gold and shining silver, And the red blood of the vineyard, And the foeman's fairest women." All, with bared heads, repeated the words in the deepest, most fervent reverence. Then Aigan replaced his helmet: "Silence! Let us separate." CHAPTER XII In the Vandal camp on the left bank of the stream, Genseric's great banner floated from the royal tent, its folds often lifted by the night wind, rustling softly in the warm, dark air. In a somewhat lower tent, close beside the King's, Gibamund and Hilda sat silent, hand in hand, upon a couch. The table before them was covered with Gibamund's weapons; the lamp hanging from the roof cast a dim light upon them, which was reflected by the polished metal. Beside these bright arms lay a dark dagger with a beautiful hilt in a black leather sheath, all of very artistic work. "It was hard for me," said Gibamund, starting up impatiently, "to obey the King's order and take command in the camp to-day until his return,--the suspense, the expectation is so great." "Yes, if the Moors should fail us! How many are there, did you say?" "Twelve thousand. They ought to have arrived the day before yesterday, if they had hastened here from the camp at Bulla, according to the agreement. The King sent messenger after messenger, urging haste, in vain. At last, full of impatience, he himself rode along the Numidian road to meet them. For if twelve thousand infantry fail us to-morrow,--they were to form our whole left wing,--our position will be--hark! that is the horn of the camp-guard. The King must have returned. Let me ask." But already footsteps and the clank of weapons were heard close at hand; the husband and wife, springing up, hurried to the entrance of the tent. The curtains were drawn back from the outside, and before them, the helmet on his lofty head, stood Zazo. "You, brother?" "You back again, Zazo! Oh, now all is well!" Graver, quieter than usual, but resolute and calm, the strong warrior stood between the two who clung to him, pressing his hands. It was a joy, a consolation, to look at the erect, steadfast man. "All is not well, my sweet sister-in-law," he answered sadly though firmly. "Alas for Ammata, and the whole day of Decimum! I do not understand it," he added, shaking his head, "but much may yet be retrieved." "Whence came you so suddenly? Have you seen Gelimer?"