'Look on me,' pursued the man, bending forward, and fixing his eyes with
savage earnestness upon his listener's face. 'I am alone, old, wounded,
weak,--a stranger to your nation,--a famished and a helpless man!
Should I venture into your camp--should I risk being slain for a Roman
by your comrades--should I dare the wrath of your imperious ruler
without a cause?'
He paused; and then, still keeping his eyes on the Goth, continued in
lower and more agitated tones--
'Deny me your help, I will wander through your camp till I find your
king? Imprison me, your violence will not open my lips! Slay me, you
will gain nothing by my death! But aid me, and to the latest moment of
your life you will rejoice in the deed! I have words of terrible import
for Alaric's ear,--a secret in the gaining of which I have paid the
penalty thus!'
He pointed to his wounded arm. The solemnity of his voice, the rough
energy of his words, the stern determination of his aspect, the darkness
of the night that was round them, the rolling thunder that seemed to
join itself to their discourse, the impressive mystery of their meeting
under the city walls, all began to exert their powerful and different
influences over the mind of the Goth, changing insensibly the sentiments
at first inspired in him by the man's communications.
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