“Death,” he exclaimed—“Death to all who resist,” in tones singularly deep and stern and solemn—“Mercy to those who yield them!”
“Do with _us_ as thou wilt, great king,” returned Aurelius steadily, lowering as he spoke his sword’s point—“but spare our women’s honour!”
“Down with thy weapon, or die, Roman!” thundered the monarch, striding forward as he spoke and raising his sword high.
“Death for resistance!—Mercy for surrender!—A king’s love for fair women!” shouted the Hun, enraged at finding opposition where he dreamed not of meeting any, and his blood fired almost beyond endurance by the exquisite charms of the women, whom he could clearly see beyond their few defenders.
“Then die, Aurelius! die as becomes a Roman—and by the Heavens above us both, I will die with you,” exclaimed Julia, nerved by despair to courage.
“Ha! wilt thou?” exclaimed Attila; “Onegisus, reserve that girl who spoke so boldly, and that black-haired maid with the jewelled collar, for the king’s pleasure! Make in, Huns,” he added in an appalling shout—“kill, win, enjoy—but leave this dog to me!” and with the word he assailed, sword in hand, the new-made husband. One deadly close charge, and the four defenders were hewn down—yea! hewn limb from limb, by a hundred weapons—and then what followed was too terrible for words—enough! all that war has most horrible—murder and agony and violation, in their worst, most accursed shapes, reigned there and revelled fiends incarnate.
Onegisus had seized the bride and the other wretched girl indicated by the king, and they were for the moment safe among the tumult—and still Aurelius and Attila fought hand to hand, unwounded, and well paired, a perilous and deadly duel. And ever as she stood there, unconscious of the hellish deeds that were in progress round her, she gazed with a calm, fearless eye upon her bridegroom. Onegisus had her grasped firmly by the left arm, and as she neither strove, nor shrieked, nor struggled, but stood still as a marble statue, he thought no more about it, but gazed himself with all his eyes upon the combat. At last, as if by mutual consent, the champions paused for breath.
“Thou art brave, Roman,” said the Hun, in his deep, stern, low tones, not seeming in the least degree disturbed or out of wind—“Attila loves the brave!—Live and be free!”