Part 2 — THE ROMAN BRIDE.

A TALE OF THE WESTERN EMPIRE.

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BY THE AUTHOR OF “THE BROTHERS,” “CROMWELL,” “RINGWOOD THE ROVER,” ETC.

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The might and glory which had of yore reared the imperial city to its throne of universal domination, had long ago departed from the degenerate and weak posterity of the world’s conquerors! The name of Roman was but the lucid meteor of the charnel imparting a faint lustre to corruption and decay! The bold hordes of the hardy north had oftentimes already avenged the wrongs done by the elder Cæsar, while the frail silken puppets, who had succeeded to his style and station, trembled in the unguarded capital at every rumor from beyond the Danube. For, to the limits of that mighty river had they extended, years before the time of which we write, their arms, their arts, their sciences, and their religion—the pure and holy doctrines of the crucified Redeemer. All the Dalmatian coast of the bright gulf of Venice, now little more known than the wilds of central Asia, was studded with fair towns, and gorgeous palaces, and gay suburban villas; and all the wide spread plains of Thrace and Thessaly, now forest-clad and pathless, save to the untamed klepht or barbarous tartar, waved white with crops of grain, and blushed with teeming vineyards, and nurtured a dense happy population. At times indeed the overwhelming deluge of barbarian warfare had burst upon those fertile regions; and, wheresoever it burst,

“With sweepy sway

Their arms, their arts, their gods were whirled away—”

yet ever, when the refluent billows ebbed, the grass had sprung up green and copious even in the horse tramps of the innumerable cavalry that swelled the armies of the north, and the succeeding summer had smiled on meads and vineyards abundant as before, and on a population careless and free and jocund.

But now a mightier name was on the wind—a wilder terror was abroad—Attila!—Attila—the dread Hun! Still all as yet was peace; and, although rumors were abroad of meetings beyond the Danube; of the bent bow—emblem of instant warfare—sent with the speed of horse o’er moor, morass, and mountain—although the tribute, paid yearly by the degenerate Cæsars, had been refused indignantly by the bold Marcian—bold, and wise, and worthy the best days of the republic!—although from all these tokens prudent men had foreseen the wrath to come, and brave men armed to meet it, and cowards fled before it; still careless and improvident the crowd maintained their usual demeanor, and toiled, and laughed, and bought, and sold, and feasted, and slept sound o’ nights, as though there were no such things on earth as rapine, and revenge, and merciless unmitigated war.

It was as sweet and beautiful an evening in the early autumn as ever looked down with bright and cheerful smile from the calm heavens upon man’s hour of rest, what time the labor and the burthen of the day all past and over, he gathers round him his blythe household, and no more dreaming of anxiety or toil or sorrow, looks confidently forward to a secure night and happy morrow. And never did the eye of day, rising or sitting, look down from his height upon a brighter or a happier assemblage than was gathered on that evening in a sweet rural villa, scarce a mile distant from the gates of Singidurum one of the frontier towns of Masia on the Danube.

It was a wedding eve—the wedding of two beings both young and beautiful and loving. Julia, the fairest of the province, the bright and noble daughter of its grave proconsul, famed for her charms, her arts, her wit and elegance, even in the great Rome itself before her father had taken on himself—alas! in an evil hour—the duties and the honors of that remote provincial government—and brave Aurelius, the patrician—Aurelius, who, though not yet had he reached his thirtieth summer, had fought in nine pitched battles, besides affairs of posts and skirmishes past counting—won no less than five civic crowns, for the lives saved of Romans on the field, and collars, and horse trappings, and gold bracelets, as numerous as were awarded to the deeds of Marius, when valor was a common virtue in Rome’s martial offspring.

They were a noble pair, and beautiful, as noble—well-matched—she, light as the summer cloud and airy as its zephyr and graceful as the vine that waves at every breath—he vigorous and tall as the young oak before the blight of eld has gnarled one giant limb or scathed one wreath of its dark foliage.

Delicate, fair, and slender and tall beyond the middle height of woman with a waist ‘shaped to love’s wish’ and every graceful outline full of rich rounded symmetry, young Julia was a thing to dream of as the inhabitant of some far bright Elysian, rather than to behold as an inmate of the rude heartless world. It seemed as though it were a sin that the sun’s ardent kiss should visit her transparent cheek too warmly, that any breath but that of the softest summer gale should wanton in the luxuriant ringlets of her long silky auburn hair—her eyes were blue and clear as the bosom of some pure moonlit fountain, and there was in them a wild, yet not unquiet gaze, half languor and half tenderness. She was indeed a creature but little fitted to battle with the cares and sorrows of this pilgrimage, and as she leaned on the stalwart arm of her warrior lover, hanging upon him as if confident in his vast strength and relying absolutely on his protection, and fixing the soft yearning gaze of those blue eyes full on his broad brow and expressive lineaments, no one could doubt that she had chosen well the partner who should support and guide her through this vale of tears and sin and sorrow.

But who thought then of tears—who ever dreamed of sorrow? The day had been passed happily—alas! how happily!—in innocent and pure festivity—the blythe dance on the velvet greensward, the joyous ramble amid the trelliced vines, the shadowy cypresses, the laurelled mazes of the garden; with lyre and lute and song, and rich peals of the mellow flute and melancholy horn blent with the livelier clashing of the cymbals, waking at intervals the far and slumbering echoes of the dark wilderness beyond the Danube. Oh! had they but known what ears were listening to their mirthful music, what eyes were gloating with the fierce lust of barbarous anticipation on their fair forms and radiant faces, what hearts were panting amid the dense and tangled forests for the approaching nightfall—how would their careless mirth have been converted into despair and dread and anguish, their languishing and graceful gait into precipitate and breathless flight—those blythe light hearted beings!

The sun set glowing in the west—glowing with the bright promise of a lovely morrow—and many an eye dwelt on his waning glories, and drew bright augeries from the rich flood of lustre, which streamed in hues of varying rose and gold up to the purpled zenith; while on the opposite verge of heaven, the full orbed moon had hung already her broad shield of virgin silver, with Lucifer the star of love kindling his diamond lamp beside her.

“Farewell, great sun—and blessings be upon thy course”—whispered Aurelius to his lovely bride, as hanging fondly on his arm, she watched from the Ionic porticoes of spotless Parian marble, the last sun of her maiden days—“that thou hast set so calm and bright, and with such promise of a glorious future—Hail, Julia, Hail with me the happy omen!”

“To-morrow”—she replied in tones of eloquent music, half blushing as she spoke even at the intensity of her own feelings—“To-morrow, my Aurelius, I shall be thine, all thine!”—

“And art thou not all mine, even now, beloved—By the bright heavens above us—for long—long years!—my heart with all its hopes and fears and aspirations, my life with its whole crime and purpose—my soul with its very essence and existence have been thine—all! all thine—my Julia—and art not thou mine, now!—why what save death should sever us?—”

“Talk not of death!”—she answered with a slight shiver running through all her frame—“Talk not of death, Aurelius—I feel even now as if his icy breath was blowing on my spirit, his dim and awful shadow reflecting darkness on my every thought—dost thou believe, Aurelius, that passing shades like these, which will at times sadden and chill the soul, are true presentiments of coming evil?”

“That do I not—sweet love”—he answered—“that do I not believe; when by chance or some strain of highly wrought and thrilling sentiment the heart-strings of us mortals are attuned too high beyond their wont, like harp chords, they will harmonize to any sound or sentiment that accords to their own spirit pitch; and, neither sad nor joyous in themselves, will respond readily to either grief or sorrow: that, feeling no cause for mirth or gloom, we fancy them prophetic feelings, when they are but reflected tones, and so disquiet ourselves often with a vain shadow!”

“Well,”—she replied, still sadly—“I wish it may be so, as I suppose it is. Yet—yet—I would it were to-morrow!”

“Come, come! I must not have thee thus sad on an eve like this, my Julia—lo! they have lighted up the hall—and the banquet is spread, and the wine poured—the queen of the feast must not be absent!”

And shaking off the gloom which had, she knew not why, oppressed her, she turned with one long lingering last glance to the sun as he disappeared behind the dark tree tops which seemed to swallow him up in an unnatural gloom, and entered the vast hall which, hung with tapestries of silk and gold, and garlanded with wreaths of choice flowers, and reeking with unnumbered perfumes, lighted with lamps of gold pouring their soft illumination over the gorgeous boards, shewed like a very palace of the senses.

The bridal strains burst forth harmonious at the first, and slow and solemn, but quickening and thrilling as they rose, till every ear that heard them responded to their enlivening impulse, and every bosom glowed and panted to their expressive cadences. The wine went round, and laughter circled with it, and many a tender glance was interchanged, and many a whisper that called up burning blushes, and many a pressure of young hands betwixt those, who hoped that as this night to Julia and Aurelius, so should one be for them at no far distant!—and many prayed that such might be their lot—and many envied them!—Oh God, what blinded worms we be—when left to our own guidance!

The bridal feast was over—the bridal hymns were hushed—the banquet hall was left deserted—for in an inner chamber all hung with spotless white at a small altar placed beneath a cross gorgeous with gold and jewels stood Julia and Aurelius—the tender and solicitous mother and the gray headed noble father at her side—the priest of God before them, and all the joyous company hushed in mute awe, that arose not from fear—and the faith of that bright pair was plighted, and the gold ring set on the slender finger, and the last blessing was pronounced, and they two were made one.

Just in that breathless pause as the words of the priest ceased to sound, although their cadences were still ringing in the ears of all who heard them—there was a sudden rustle heard without, and a dread cry. “The city!—the city!—Singidurum!” So piercing was the cry, that not one of all those who heard it, but felt that something dreadful was in progress—in an instant the whole company rushed out into the portico—and lo! one flood of crimson flame was soaring up the sky from what an hour before had been a beauteous and a happy town—and a confused din of roars and howls burst with the shrill yells of despairing women, the clash of arms, and the thundering downfall of towns, palaces, and temples, filled the whole atmosphere with fiendish uproar. Scarce had they time to mark, or comprehend what they beheld, before, about them, and around, on every side came the thick beating hoofs—and in another moment they might see the myriads of the Hunish horsemen circling them in on every side, and cutting off all hope of flight or rescue with a dark living rampart. “Romans,” Aurelius shouted—“Romans to arms—for life, and liberty, and vengeance!”

His words were obeyed instantly, for all perceived their truth—but what availed it? To hew down a dozen trees and batter down the village gates was but a moment’s work for the blood-thirsty hordes who swarmed around the building. The outer gate was shattered in a moment—the inner, frailer yet, gave at the first assault, and now no bulwark was left any longer to the Romans save in their own good swords and stalwart sinews! Bravely they fought—aye, desperately—heaping the marble floors with mangled carcasses, and dying, each man where he stood, where the sword smote or javelin pierced him, dauntless and undismayed. Long they fought, for each Roman slain cutting down ten barbarians—but by degrees they were borne back—back at the sword’s point, foot by foot—and marking every step by their own streaming gore. At the hour’s end but five were left—five, and all wounded, and one old: the father of the wretched Julia, Aurelius and his brother, and two young nobles of the province. Retreating, step by step, they were at last driven back into the bridal chamber—the altar stood there yet, and the great cross above it, and the priest clinging to the cross, and at his feet the bride, with her fair tresses all dishevelled and all her lovely comrades prostrate upon the ground around her. The door was barred within—brief respite, no defence—and the strong men leaned upon their weapons in despair and gazed on one another, and then from one another to the women. It was a sad and awful scene. A rush of heavy feet was heard without—a halt, and then a rustling sound, with now a clang of steel and now the clatter of a grounded spear, as if the multitude was getting silently into array and order—a pause, and a loud cry!—“Attila!—Attila!—the king!”

Then came a slow and measured footstep striding up to the door—one short and heavy blow upon the pannel, as with a sword’s hilt—and a stern, grave voice exclaimed “Open!”

“I will,” answered Aurelius, “they would destroy it in an instant—it is but one chance in a myriad, but best trust to his mercy.” With the words he drew back bar after bar, and threw the door wide open—and there! there on the very threshold, with his swart cicatrized features, and short, square, athletic form, sheathed in scale armor of a strange device, with the hideous Charntean head gleaming out grim and awful from his breastplate, and the strange sword—all iron, hilt and blade, and guard and scabbard—his weapon and his God, firmly grasped in his right hand, but as yet bloodless—there stood the dreadful Hun!

“Death,” he exclaimed—“Death to all who resist,” in tones singularly deep and stern and solemn—“Mercy to those who yield them!”

“Do with us as thou wilt, great king,” returned Aurelius steadily, lowering as he spoke his sword’s point—“but spare our women’s honour!”

“Down with thy weapon, or die, Roman!” thundered the monarch, striding forward as he spoke and raising his sword high.

“The terms, great Attila?”

“Death for resistance!—Mercy for surrender!—A king’s love for fair women!” shouted the Hun, enraged at finding opposition where he dreamed not of meeting any, and his blood fired almost beyond endurance by the exquisite charms of the women, whom he could clearly see beyond their few defenders.

“Then die, Aurelius! die as becomes a Roman—and by the Heavens above us both, I will die with you,” exclaimed Julia, nerved by despair to courage.

“Ha! wilt thou?” exclaimed Attila; “Onegisus, reserve that girl who spoke so boldly, and that black-haired maid with the jewelled collar, for the king’s pleasure! Make in, Huns,” he added in an appalling shout—“kill, win, enjoy—but leave this dog to me!” and with the word he assailed, sword in hand, the new-made husband. One deadly close charge, and the four defenders were hewn down—yea! hewn limb from limb, by a hundred weapons—and then what followed was too terrible for words—enough! all that war has most horrible—murder and agony and violation, in their worst, most accursed shapes, reigned there and revelled fiends incarnate.

Onegisus had seized the bride and the other wretched girl indicated by the king, and they were for the moment safe among the tumult—and still Aurelius and Attila fought hand to hand, unwounded, and well paired, a perilous and deadly duel. And ever as she stood there, unconscious of the hellish deeds that were in progress round her, she gazed with a calm, fearless eye upon her bridegroom. Onegisus had her grasped firmly by the left arm, and as she neither strove, nor shrieked, nor struggled, but stood still as a marble statue, he thought no more about it, but gazed himself with all his eyes upon the combat. At last, as if by mutual consent, the champions paused for breath.

“Thou art brave, Roman,” said the Hun, in his deep, stern, low tones, not seeming in the least degree disturbed or out of wind—“Attila loves the brave!—Live and be free!”

“Her honour, mighty Attila—my young bride’s honour—be merciful and generous as thou art brave and noble.”

“Choose—fool!” the king exclaimed in a voice resembling more the growl of a famished tiger than any human sound—“choose between life or death!”

“Death or her honor!”

“Then die—idiot—Roman!” sneered the other, and with a fearful cry, grinding his teeth till the foam flew from them as from the tusks of a hunted boar, he leaped upon Aurelius. Three deadly blows were interchanged, and at each blow a wound—but at the fourth, Attila’s sword descending like a thunderbolt, shivered the Roman’s blade into a thousand pieces, and, glancing from his helmet, alighted on his shoulder, and clove deep into his chest!—he staggered forward, and at the next instant met the sword’s point, driven home by a tremendous thrust into his very vitals. Headlong he fell backward; but, as he fell, his glazing eyes turned fearfully toward his loved Julia—they glazed fast—but he saw, and smiled in dying, and died happy! For, as the last blow fell, she saw the fight was over—and by a sudden movement, the less expected from her complete and passive quietude, she snatched a long knife from the girdle of Onegisus, and before he well knew what she had done, much less had time to prevent it, had stabbed herself three times—each time mortally—into her virgin bosom.

“Husband,” she cried, “I come!—true to my word—Aurelius—I am thine now—all thine!” and, as the horror-stricken Hun released his hold upon her arm, she darted forward, and threw herself upon the bosom of her brave lord. Convulsively, in the death spasm, his arms closed about her,

And in that act

And agony her happy spirit fled.