Widowed, childless, friendless, the assassin of her
last kinsman, she moved apart in her own secret world of bereavement,
desolation, and crime.
Yet there was no madness, no remorse for her share in accomplishing the
fate of Hermanric, in the dark and solitary existence which she now led.
From the moment when the young warrior had expiated with his death his
disregard of the enmities of his nation and the wrongs of his kindred,
she thought of him only as of one more victim whose dishonour and ruin
she must live to requite on the Romans with Roman blood, and matured her
schemes of revenge with a stern resolution which time, and solitude, and
bodily infirmity were all powerless to disturb.
She would pace for hours and hours together, in the still night and in
the broad noonday, round and round the warrior's grave, nursing her
vengeful thoughts within her, until a ferocious anticipation of triumph
quickened her steps and brightened her watchful eyes. Then she would
enter the farm-house, and, drawing the knife from its place of
concealment in her garments, would pass its point slowly backwards and
forwards over the hearth on which she had mutilated Hermanric with her
own hand, and from which he had advanced, without a tremor, to meet the
sword-points of the Huns.
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