ent of the giant,
whose face had crimsoned when he entered the apartment. He cast a
searching glance around the room, hoping to discover some trace--some
article of clothing; but he did not find it. His whole soul was burning
with the desire to speak of Eugenia, to ask about her, to learn her
feelings. Yet he so feared to approach the subject. He did not know
whether his bride had told her friend of his heavy, heavy sin. He
feared it. Surely it was probable that the Princess had asked the girl
the cause of her terror; and why should Eugenia keep silence? Why
should she spare him? Had he deserved it? Had not the indignant girl,
with the utmost justice, cast him off forever? All these questions,
over which he had been pondering, now pressed at once on his bewildered
brain. He was so bitterly ashamed of himself, he would rather have
marched alone to meet Belisarius's entire army than talk now with this
noble woman; yet he had boldly encountered harder things. As he made no
reply, but merely stood with laboring breath, Hilda repeated the
question,--

"What brings you to me, Thrasaric?"

He must answer--he saw that. So he replied, but Hilda was almost
startled when he cried loudly, "A horse."

"A horse?" asked the Princess, slowly. "What am I to do with it?"

Thrasaric was glad to be able to speak, and at some length, of subjects
not connected with Eugenia. So he now answered, quickly and easily: "To
ride it."

"Yes," laughed Hilda, "I suppose so! But to whom does the horse
belong?"

"To you. I give it to you. Gibamund has permitted it. He commands you
to accept it from me. Do you hear? He commands."

"Well, well! I haven't refused yet. So I thank you cordially. What kind
of horse is it?"

"The best one on earth."

The answers now came with the speed of lightning.

"Gibamund and my brother-in-law said that of Cabaon's stallion."

"It is the very horse."

"That belongs to Modigisel."

"Not now."

"Why?"

"Oh, for many reasons. In the first place, it is now yours. Secondly,
the animal lately ran away from Modigisel at night, was carried off.
Thirdly, Modigisel is dead. And, fourthly, the stallion belongs to me."

These replies had come almost too rapidly. Hilda gazed at him without
understanding.

"Modigisel dead? Incredible!"

"But it is true. And really--except for himself--no great misfortune. A
short time ago, at night, I helped a young Moorish prisoner to escape.
I could not foresee that he would