Peter, I see not Vulcan and the net!' cried Fravitta, who having served in the armies of Rome, and acquired a vague knowledge there of the ancient mythology, and the modern politics of the Empire, was considered by his companions as the wit of the battalion to which he was attached.
'I like her figure,' growled Fritigern, a heavy, phlegmatic giant, renowned for his imperturbable good humour and his prowess in drinking.
'What little there is of it looks so limp that Hermanric might pack her into his light baggage and carry her about with him on his shoulders wherever he goes!' 'By which process you would say, old sucker of wine-skins, that he will attain the double advantage of always keeping her to himself, and always keeping her warm,' interrupted Colias, a ruddy, reckless boy of sixteen, privileged to be impertinent in consideration of his years.
'Is she Orthodox or Arian ?' gravely demanded Athanaric, who piqued himself on his theological accomplishments and his extraordinary piety.
'What hair she has!' exclaimed Suerid, sarcastically.

'It is as black as the horse-hides of a squadron of Huns!' 'Show us her face! Whose tent will she visit next ?' cried Witheric, with an insolent laugh.
'Mine!' replied Fritigern, complacently.

'What says the chorus of the song?
'Money and wine Make beauty mine! I have more of both than any of you.

She will come to my tent!' During the delivery of these clumsy jests, which followed one upon another with instantaneous rapidity, the scorn at first expressed in Hermanric's countenance became gradually replaced by a look of irrepressible anger.

As Fritigern spoke, he lost all command over himself, and seizing his sword, advanced threateningly towards the easy-tempered giant, who made no attempt to recede or defend himself, but called out soothingly, 'Patience, man! patience! Would you kill an old comrade for jesting?
I envy you your good luck as a friend, not as an enemy!' Yielding to the necessity of lowering his sword before a defenceless man, Hermanric was about to reply angrily to Fritigern, when his voice was drowned in the blast of a trumpet, sounding close by the tent.