he
choice lay with the father, and perhaps in his heart the politic
Visigoth could not regret that Arvernia should lose a champion sure
to stand up for Roman or national claims.

Odo listened in silence, leaning on his axe. Then he turned his
face to the bystanders, and demanded of them--

"Which of them is the bolder? Which of them flinched at my axe?"

The spectators were unanimous that neither had blenched. The
slender lad had presented himself as resolutely as the stately
warrior.

"It is well," said Odo. "Either way my son will be worthily
avenged. I leave the choice to you, young men."

A brief debate ended in an appeal to the Senator, who, in spite of
all his fortitude, could not restrain himself from groaning aloud,
hiding his face in his hands, and hoarsely saying, "Draw lots."

"Yes," said Euric; "commit the judgment to Heaven."

It was hailed as a relief; but Lucius stipulated that the lots
should be blessed by a Catholic priest, and Verronax muttered
impatiently--

"What matters it? Let us make an end as quickly as may be!"

He had scarcely spoken when shouts were heard, the throng made way,
the circle of lites opened, as, waving an olive branch, a wearied,
exhausted rider and horse appeared, and staggering to the foot of
the throne, there went down entirely spent, the words being just
audible, "He lives! Odorik lives!"

It was Marcus AEmilius, covered with dust, and at first unable to
utter another word, as he sat on the ground, supported by his
brother, while his father made haste to administer the wine handed
to him by an attendant.

"Am I in time?" he asked.

"In time, my son," replied his father, repeating his announcement in
Gothic. "Odorik lives!"

"He lives, he will live," repeated Marcus, reviving. "I came not
away till his life was secure."

"Is it truth?" demanded the old Goth. "Romans have slippery ways."

Meinhard was quick to bear testimony that no man in Arvernia doubted
the word of an AEmilius; but Marcus, taking a small dagger from his
belt, held it out, saying--

"His son said that he would know this token."

Odo felt it. "It is my son's knife," he said, still cautiously;
"but it cannot speak to say how it was taken from him."

"The old barbarian heathen," quoth Verronax, under his breath; "he
would rather lose his son than his vengeance."

Marcus had gathered breath and memory to add, "Tell him Odorik said
he would know the token of the red-breast that