All that she had suffered since Ulpius had dragged her from
the farm-house in the suburbs--the night pilgrimage over the plain--the
fearful passage through the wall--revived in her memory, mingled with
vague ideas, now for the first time aroused, of the plague and famine
that were desolating the city; and, with sudden apprehensions that
Goisvintha might still be following her, knife in hand, through the
lonely streets; while passively prominent over all these varying sources
of anguish and dread, the scene of the young chieftain's death lay like
a cold weight on her heavy heart. The damp turf of his grave seemed
still to press against her breast; his last kiss yet trembled on her
lips; she knew, though she dared not look down on them, that the spots
of his blood yet stained her garments.
Whether she strove to rise and continue her flight; whether she crouched
down again under the portico, resigned for one bitter moment to perish
by the knife of Goisvintha--if Goisvintha were near; to fall once more
into the hands of Ulpius--if Ulpius were tracking her to her retreat,--
the crushing sense that she was utterly bereaved of her beloved
protector--that the friend of her brief days of happiness was lost to
her for ever--that Hermanric, who had preserved her from death, had been
murdered in his youth and his strength by her side, never deserted her.
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