the glowing future
belong to my people!'"

"Well, and now?"

"I speak so no more. You have won, Camilla!"

But even while he spoke thus, he looked prouder than ever.

And this expression of superiority revolted the Roman girl. Besides
that, she was irritated by the unapproachable coolness with which the
King, upon whose passion for her such plans were being founded, stood
before her. She did not understand this tranquillity. She had hated him
because he had dared to show her his love, and now her hate revived
because he was able to conceal it. With the intention to hurt his
feelings she slowly said:

"So you acknowledge, King of the Goths, that your barbarians are
inferior to the civilised nations?"

"Yes, Camilla," he answered quietly; "but only in one thing: in good
luck. In the favours of Fate as well as of Nature. Look at that group
of fishermen, who are hanging up their nets on the olive-trees upon the
strand. How beautiful are their forms! In motion and repose, in spite
of their rags, they are complete statues! Look at that girl with the
amphora on her head. And there, at that old woman, who, leaning her
head on her arm, lies upon the sand and gazes out dreamily over the
sea. Each beggar amongst them looks like a dethroned king. How
beautiful they are! At one with themselves and happy! The glory of
uninterrupted happiness lies upon them, as it does upon children, or
upon noble animals! This is wanting to us barbarians!"

"Is that alone wanting to you?"

"No, Fate is not gracious to us--my poor, glorious people! We have been
carried away into a strange world, in which we do not flourish. We
resemble the flower of the high Alps, the Edelweiss, which has been
carried by the stormy wind to the hot sands of the low-levels. We
cannot take root here. We fade and die." And overcome with noble
sadness, he turned away and looked over the blue waves.

But Camilla was not in the humour to reflect upon these prophetic words
spoken by a king of his people.

"Why did you overstep the mountains which God set as an eternal
boundary between your people and ours?" she asked. "Say, why?"

"Do you know," answered Athalaric, without looking at her, almost as if
thinking aloud, "do you know why the dark moth flies to the bright
flame? Again and again! Warned by no pain, until it is devoured by the
beautiful but dangerous element? From what motive? From a sweet
madness! And it is just such a sweet madness that has enticed m