fort. But
that reminds me of thy wish. Here is the key to the great door of the
granaries. I carry it with me day and night. Keep it carefully--it
guards my last hope. Upon its safety depend the lives of many
thousands. These granaries are the only thing that has not failed. I
wonder," he added sadly, "that the earth has not opened, or fire fallen
from Heaven, to destroy this my work!"

He took the heavy key from the bosom of his doublet.

"Guard it well, it is my last treasure, Mataswintha."

"I thank thee, Witichis--King Witichis," said she, and would have taken
the key, but her hand trembled so much that it fell to the ground.

"What is the matter?" asked the King as he picked up the key and put it
into her hand. "Thou tremblest? Art thou sick!" he added anxiously.

"No--it is nothing. But do not look at me so--do not look at me as thou
didst this morning----"

"Forgive me, Queen," said Witichis, turning away, "my looks shall no
more offend thee. I have had much, too much, to grieve me lately. And
when I tried to find out for what hidden guilt I could have deserved
all my misfortune--" his voice grew very tender.

"Then? Oh, speak!" cried Mataswintha; for she could not doubt the
meaning of his unspoken thought.

"I often thought amid all my doubt, that it might be a punishment for
the cruel, cruel wrong I did to a noble creature; a woman whom I have
sacrificed to my people----"

And in the ardour of his speech he involuntarily looked at his
listener.

Mataswintha's cheeks glowed. She was obliged, in order to keep herself
upright, to grasp the arm of the chair near her.

"At last," she thought, "at last his heart awakes, and I--how have I
acted towards him! And he regrets----"

"A woman," continued Witichis, "who has suffered unspeakably on my
account, more than words can express----"

"Cease," whispered Mataswintha so softly that he did not hear it.

"And when I lately saw thee so gentle, so mild, more womanly than ever
before--it touched my heart, and tears came into my eyes!"

"O Witichis!" breathed Mataswintha.

"Every tone of thy voice penetrated deeply into my heart, for the sweet
sound reminded me so vividly, so sadly----"

"Of whom?" asked Mataswintha, and she turned pale as death.

"Of her whom I have sacrificed! Who gave up all for me; of my wife
Rauthgundis, the soul of my soul!"

For how long a time had he never uttered aloud that beloved name! At
the sound of his own voice, grief a