Now the Vandal horns blared again, and nearer. The King, whose approach along the straight Street of the Legions was distinctly seen from a long distance, dashed into the square, far in advance of his soldiers. Only a few slaves bearing torches had succeeded in following him; his brothers, who had summoned a troop of horsemen, were behind with them. The King checked his snorting cream-colored charger directly in front of Thrasaric and the nobles so suddenly that it reared. "Insubordinate men! Disobedient people of the Vandals!" he shouted reproachfully. "Is this the way you obey your sovereign's command? Do you seek to draw upon your heads the wrath of Heaven? Who gave this festival? Who directed it?" "I gave it, my King," said Thrasaric, moving a step forward. "I deeply repent it. Punish me. But spare him who at my request directed it, my brother. He has--" "Vanished with the dead girl," interrupted Gundobad. "I wanted to appeal to him also to support with us Gundings the cause of the nobles against the King--" "For this hour," added Gundomar, "will decide whether we shall be serfs of the Asdings or free nobles." "Yes, I am weary of being commanded," said Modigisel. "We are of no meaner blood than his," cried Gundobad, with a threatening glance at the King. Already a large band of kinsmen, friends, and followers, many of whom were armed, was gathering round the Gundings. Thrasaric was stepping into their midst to try to avert the impending conflict, but he was now surrounded by throngs of his own and his brother's slaves. "My Lord," they cried, "Thrasabad has disappeared. What shall be done? The festival--" "Is over. Alas that it ever began!" "But the races in the Circus opposite?" "Will not take place! Lead the horses out! Return them to their owners." "I will not take the stallion until after we have thrown the dice," cried Modigisel. "Ay, tremble with rage. I hold you to your word." "And the wild beasts?" urged a freedman. "They are roaring for food." "Leave them where they are! Feed them!" "And the Moorish prisoner?" He could not answer; for while the racehorses, the stallion among them, were being led from the Circus into the square between it and the Amphitheatre, loud shouts rang from the exits of the latter. "The Moor! The captive! He has escaped! He is running away! Stop him!" Thrasaric turned, and saw the figure of the young Moor coming toward him. He had been bound hand and foot, and though successful in breaking the rope around his ankles, he had been unable to sever the one firmly fastened about his wrists, and was greatly impeded in forcing a way through the crowd by his inability to use his hands. "Let him go! Let him run!" ordered Thrasaric. "No," shouted the pursuers. "He has just knocked his master down by a blow of his fist. His master commanded it! He must die! A thousand sestertii to the man who captures him." Stones flew, and here and there a spear whizzed by.