'Is she Orthodox or Arian?' gravely demanded Athanaric, who piqued
himself on his theological accomplishments and his extraordinary piety.
'What hair she has!' exclaimed Suerid, sarcastically. 'It is as black
as the horse-hides of a squadron of Huns!'
'Show us her face! Whose tent will she visit next?' cried Witheric,
with an insolent laugh.
'Mine!' replied Fritigern, complacently. 'What says the chorus of the
song?
'Money and wine Make beauty mine!
I have more of both than any of you. She will come to my tent!'
During the delivery of these clumsy jests, which followed one upon
another with instantaneous rapidity, the scorn at first expressed in
Hermanric's countenance became gradually replaced by a look of
irrepressible anger. As Fritigern spoke, he lost all command over
himself, and seizing his sword, advanced threateningly towards the easy-
tempered giant, who made no attempt to recede or defend himself, but
called out soothingly, 'Patience, man! patience! Would you kill an old
comrade for jesting? I envy you your good luck as a friend, not as an
enemy!'
Yielding to the necessity of lowering his sword before a defenceless
man, Hermanric was about to reply angrily to Fritigern, when his voice
was drowned in the blast of a trumpet, sounding close by the tent.
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