ornament to our
court."

"Impossible!" cried Amalaswintha; "you attack the rights, not only of
the Queen, but of the mother."

"I am the head of the family as soon as I am of age."

"My son, you know how feeble you were only a few weeks ago. Do you
really believe that the Gothic warriors will declare you capable of
bearing arms?"

The King became as scarlet as his royal purple, partly from shame,
partly from anger. Before he could find an answer, a rough voice at his
side exclaimed:

"Be not troubled about that, your Majesty! I have been his master,"
continued the speaker, turning to the assembly: "I tell you that he can
measure his strength against any foe; and whom old Hildebrand declares
capable of bearing arms is considered so by all the Goths."

Loud applause from all the Goths present confirmed this assertion.
Again Cethegus would have put in his word, but a movement behind the
curtain drew his attention away. "It is one of my greatest enemies, but
who?" he thought.

"There is yet an important matter to make known to you," again began
the King with a hasty glance at the niche, which did not escape
Cethegus.

"Perhaps an accusation against me," thought the latter; "they want to
take me by surprise? They shall not succeed!"

But it surprised him, after all, when the King suddenly called in a
loud voice:

"Prefect of Rome! Cethegus Caesarius!"

Cethegus started; but, quickly recovering himself, bent his head and
answered: "My Lord and King!"

"Have you nothing to announce from Rome? What is the feeling of the
Quirites? What do people think of the Goths?"

"They are honoured as the people of Theodoric."

"Are they feared?"

"There is no cause to fear them."

"Are they loved?"

Gladly would the Prefect have replied, "There is no cause to love
them;" but the King himself continued:

"So there is no trace of discontent? No cause for uneasiness? Nothing
particular in preparation?"

"I have nothing to communicate."

"Then you are badly informed, Prefect of Rome, or badly disposed! What?
must I--who have scarcely risen from my sick-bed here at Ravenna--tell
you what happens in Rome under your very eyes? The workmen on your
bulwarks sing satirical songs against the Goths, against the Queen,
against me. Your legions use threatening words while practising the use
of their arms. Most probably there exists already a widespread
conspiracy, with senators and priests at its head. They assemble by
nigh