"Of course they scarcely understand it. But when they see the King as, almost in an ecstasy, like a man walking in his sleep, with his burning eyes half closed, his wan, sorrowful face surrounded by tangled locks, his ragged royal mantle thrown around his shoulders, his harp on his arm, he wanders alone over the rocks and snows of this mountain; when they hear the deep, wailing voice, the mournful melody of the dirge, it affects them like a spell, though they understand little of the meaning. Hark! there it rises again." Nearer and nearer, partly borne away by the wind, came in broken words, sometimes accompanied by the strings, the chant: "Woe to thee! I mourn, I mourn! Woe to thee, O Vandal race! Soon forgot, will be thy name, Which the world, a tempest, swept. "Gloriously didst thou arise From the sea,--a meteor. Fame and radiance lost for aye, Thou wilt sink in blackest night. "All the earth's rich treasures heaped Genseric in Carthage fair. Starving beggar with the foe, Now for bread his grandson pleads. "Let thy heroes strengthen me; God's wrath on thee resteth sore; Leave fame and honor to the Goths, To the Franks:--they are but toys." "I will not listen; I will not bear it," cried Hilda. "He shall not revile all that makes life worth living." Nearer, more distinctly, sounded the slow, mournful notes. "Vanity and sin are all Thou hast cherished, Vandal race; Therefore God hath stricken thee, Therefore bowed thy head in shame. "Bow thee, bow thee to the dust, Bruised race of Genseric; Kiss the rod in gratitude. It is God the Lord Who smites." The dirge died away. The royal singer ascended with tottering steps the half-ruined stairs of the basilica, his harp hanging loosely from his left arm. Now he stood between the gray, mouldering pillars of the entrance, and, laying his right arm against the cold stone, pressed his weary head upon it. Just at that moment a young Moor came hurrying up the steps; a few bounds brought him to the top. Gibamund and Hilda went toward him in astonishment. "It is long since I have seen you move so swiftly, Sersaon," said Gibamund. "Your eyes are sparkling," cried Hilda. "You bring good tidings." The King raised his head from the pillar and, shaking it sorrowfully, looked at the Moor. "Yes, wise Queen," replied the latter. "The best of tidings: Rescue!" "Impossible!" said Gelimer, in a hollow tone. "It is true, my master. Here, Verus will confirm it." With a slow step, but unbroken strength, the priest ascended the mountain-top. He seemed rather to be prouder, more powerful than in the days of happiness; he held his head haughtily erect. In his hand he carried an arrow and a strip of papyrus.