ight feet from the chain.

The Romans trembled in expectation of the shock.

Cethegus stepped to the bow of his boat, balancing and aiming his heavy
spear.

"Mark!" he said; "as soon as the King falls, be quick with more
firebrands."

Never had the practised soldier aimed better. Drawing back his spear
once more, he launched it at the King with all the force lent to his
arm by hatred.

His followers waited breathlessly. But the King did not fall. He had
caught sight of Cethegus while aiming; at the same moment he threw down
his long and narrow shield and awaited the flying shaft with his left
arm drawn back.

Whistling came the spear straight at the spot where the King's bare
neck showed above his breastplate.

When within a few inches of his throat, the King caught the shaft with
his left hand and immediately hurled it back at the Prefect, wounding
him on the left arm just above his shield.

Cethegus fell on his knee.

At the same instant the galley struck the chain. It burst. The Roman
boats which lay near, including that of Cethegus, were upset; and most
of them drove masterless down the river.

"Victory!" shouted Totila. "Yield, mercenaries!"

Cethegus, bleeding, swam to the left bank of the river. He saw how the
Gothic galley lowered two boats, into one of which sprang the King.

He saw how a whole flotilla of large vessels, which had sailed up in
the wake of the King's galley, now broke through the boats of his
bowmen, and landed troops on both sides of the river.

He saw how his Abasgians--neither armed nor in the mood for a
hand-to-hand fight--surrendered themselves by companies to the Goths.

He saw how a rain of arrows from the royal galley fell upon the
defenders on the left bank.

He saw how the little boat, in which stood the King, now approached the
place where he himself stood, dripping with water.

He had lost his helmet in the river, his shield he had thrown away, in
order the more speedily to gain the land.

He was on the point of attacking the King, who had just landed, with
his sword alone, when a Gothic arrow grazed his neck.

"Well hit, Haduswinth?" cried a young voice; "better than at the
Mausoleum!"

"Bravo, Gunthamund!"

Cethegus tottered.

Syphax caught his arm.

At the same moment a hand was laid on his shoulder. He recognised
Marcus Licinius.

"You here! Where are your men?"

"Dead!" said Marcus. "The hundred Romans fell on the bulwark. Teja, the
terrible Tej