t counted them. He
counted bravely up to a hundred. He then laid his hand, groping
uncertainly, on the thread at his girdle. "All right," thought he; "and
I shall not sleep. Certainly not! Hundred and one!"

Then he counted no more.

CHAPTER XVIII.

Over the silent garden lay the enchantment of a warm, glorious summer
night.

The innumerable stars shone magnificently in the cloudless heavens. And
now in the east, above the walls of Juvavum, which had till now hidden
her from view, rose the full moon, pouring forth a flood of glory,
showing in her fantastic light, so bright and yet so different from
day, the white house, the dark bushes, and the tall trees.

Numerous night-loving flowers in the gardens of the villas, and in the
meadows around, whose cups were closed by day, now opened and exhaled
their scent into the soft air.

The young German traversed the garden with agitated steps.

In the rose-bushes of the neighbouring gardens sang the nightingale, so
loud, so quavering, so ardent, so impassioned, Liuthari would rather
not have heard it; and yet he could not help listening to the fervid
tones.

The night wind played in his flowing locks, for, besides the
breast-plate, he had also left his helmet in the room, only taking with
him his spear, which served as a staff, and the round shield, on which
to lay his head, if he wished to rest.

But he found no rest.

With strong determination he went away from the house, which so
powerfully attracted him, towards the entrance where the stone slabs
lay about in confusion. As the store of stones had not been sufficient
to fill up the entrance, the old slave had with the pick-axe taken up
two slabs from the threshold, one of which bore the inscription. On
this heap of stones Liuthari now sat in a deep reverie, just within the
entrance, and looked at the stars and the soft light of the moon. He
forced himself to think of his parents at home, of the past day and its
victory, of the daughter of Agilolf with the fine-sounding name--what
might she be like?

All! it was of no use; he only deceived himself: through all the
pictures of his thoughts, pushing them aside, so that they melted away
as mist, appeared that noble, pale face, the rhythmic symmetry of that
figure.

"Felicitas!" breathed he lightly to himself.

Long, long sat he thus.

Suddenly the nightingale was silent.

Liuthari was quickly awakened out of his thoughts a