ietly up to him and laid his hand upon his
shoulder.

"I am thy King. Thou thyself hast chosen me. Loud above all the others
sounded _thy_ cry: 'Hail, King Witichis!' Thou knowest--God knows--that
I did not stretch forth my hand for the crown. You yourselves have
pressed it upon my brow. Take it off, if you can entrust it to me no
longer. But as long as I wear it, trust me and obey. Otherwise you and
I are lost!"

"Thou art right," said sturdy Hildebad, and bent his head. "Forgive me;
I will make it good in the next fight."

"Up, my generals," concluded Witichis, putting on his helmet. "Thou,
Totila, wilt hasten to the Frank Kings in Gaul, on an important
embassy. You others hasten to your troops; break up the camp; at
sunrise we march to Rome."

CHAPTER VI.

A few days later, on the eve of the entry of the Goths into Rome, we
find the young "knights," Lucius and Marcus Licinius, Piso the poet,
Balbus the corpulent, and Julianus the young advocate, assembled in
confidential talk at the Prefect's house.

"So this is the list of the blind partisans of the future Pope
Silverius--of my envious enemies? Is it complete?"

"It is. I have made a great sacrifice for you, general," cried Lucius
Licinius, "If, as my heart impelled me, I had at once joined
Belisarius, I should have already shared in the taking of Neapolis,
instead of watching here the stealthy footsteps of the priests, and
teaching the plebeians to march and man[oe]uvre."

"They will never learn it again," observed Marcus.

"Be patient," said Cethegus quietly, and without looking up from a roll
of papyrus which he held in his hand. "You will be able, soon enough
and long enough, to wrestle with these Gothic bears. Do not forget that
fighting is only a means, and not an end."

"I don't know that," said Lucius doubtfully.

"Freedom is our aim, and freedom demands power," said Cethegus.
"We must first again accustom these Romans to shield and sword, or
else----"

He was interrupted by the entrance of the ostiarius, who announced a
Gothic warrior.

The young Romans exchanged indignant looks.

"Let him in," said Cethegus, putting his writings into a casket.

There entered hastily a young man, clad in the brown mantle of the
Gothic soldier, a Gothic helmet on his head, who threw himself on the
Prefect's neck.

"Julius!" exclaimed Cethegus, coldly repulsing him. "Do we meet again
thus? Have you, then, become a comple