'What! ye have still soldiers before whom the barbarian must tremble for
his conquests!' he cried. 'Where are they? Are they on their march, or
in ambush, or hiding behind strong walls, or have they lost their way on
the road to the Gothic camp? Ha! here is one of them!' he exclaimed,
advancing towards an enfeebled and disarmed guard of the Senate, who
quailed beneath his fierce glance. 'Fight, man!' he loudly continued;
'fight while there is yet time, for imperial Rome! Thy sword is gone--
take mine, and be a hero again!'
With a rough laugh, echoed by the warriors behind him, he flung his
ponderous weapon as he spoke towards the wretched object of his sarcasm.
The hilt struck heavily against the man's breast; he staggered and fell
helpless to the ground. The laugh was redoubled among the Goths; but
now their leader did not join in it. His eye glowed in triumphant scorn
as he pointed to the prostrate Roman, exclaiming--
'So does the South fall beneath the sword of the North! So shall the
empire bow before the rule of the Goth! Say, as ye look on these Romans
before us, are we not avenged of our wrongs? They die not fighting on
our swords; they live to entreat our pity, as children that are in
terror of the whip!'
He paused.
Pages:
680
681
682
683
684
685
686
687
688
689
690
691
692
693
694
695
696
697
698
699
700
701
702
703
704