scarcely any
hope left of winning the wall.

While he was thus looking and waiting, the heavy marble pedestal of a
"Mars Gradivus" fell close to his feet, rebounded and struck one of the
slabs of the wall. And this slab, which seemed to be made of the
hardest stone, broke into little pieces of lime and mortar.

In its place was revealed a small wooden door, which, loosely covered
and concealed by the mortar, was used by the masons and workpeople as a
means of exit and entrance when obliged to repair the immense edifice.

Witichis had scarcely caught sight of this wooden door, than he cried
out exultingly:

"Here, Goths, here! Bring axes!" and he himself dealt a blow at the
thin boards, which seemed anything but strong.

The new and singular sound struck the ear of the Prefect; he paused in
his bloody work and listened.

"That is iron against wood, by Caesar!" he said to himself, and sprang
down the narrow stairway, which led on the inner side of the wall into
the faintly illuminated interior of the Mausoleum.

There he heard a louder stroke than all which had preceded it; a dull
crash; a sharp sound of splintered wood; and then an exultant cry from
the Goths.

As he reached the last step of the stair, the door fell crashing
inwards, and King Witichis was visible upon the threshold.

"Rome is mine!" cried Witichis, letting his axe fall and drawing his
sword.

"You lie, Witichis! for the first time in your life!" cried Cethegus
furiously, and, springing forward, he pressed the strong spike of his
shield so firmly against the breastplate of the Goth, that the latter,
surprised, fell back a step.

The Prefect took advantage of the movement and placed himself upon the
threshold, completely blocking up the doorway.

"Where are my Isaurians!" he shouted. But the next moment Witichis had
recognised him. "So we meet at last in single combat for Rome!" cried
the King.

And now it was his turn to attack. Cethegus, who wished to close the
passage, covered his left side with his shield; his right hand, armed
only with a short sword, was insufficient for the protection of his
right side.

The thrust of Witichis's long sword, weakly parried by Cethegus, cut
through the latter's coat of mail and entered deeply into his right
breast.

Cethegus staggered; he bent forward; but he did not fall.

"Rome! Rome!" he cried faintly; and convulsively kept himself upright.

Witichis had fallen back to gain space for a final