One after another these banished recollections returned to his memory as he listened to Alaric's rebuking words--reviving past infirmities, opening old wounds, inflicting new lacerations.

But, saving the shudderings that still shook his body, no outward witness betrayed the inward torment that assailed him.

It was too strong for human words, too terrible for human sympathy;--he suffered it in brute silence.

Monstrous as was his plot, the moral punishment of its attempted consummation was severe enough to be worthy of the projected crime.
After watching the man for a few minutes more, with a glance of pitiless disdain, Alaric summoned one of the warriors in attendance; and, having previously commanded him to pass the word to the sentinels, authorising the stranger's free passage through the encampment, he then turned, and, for the last time, addressed him as follows:-- 'Return to Rome, through the hole whence, reptile-like, you emerged!--and feed your starving citizens with the words you have heard in the barbarian's tent!' The guard approached, led him from the presence of the king, issued the necessary directions to the sentinels, and left him to himself.

Once he raised his eyes in despairing appeal to the heaven that frowned over his head; but still, no word, or tear, or groan, escaped him.