For a moment he stooped towards Antonina, as she clung fainting round him.

His mouth quivered and his eye glistened as he kissed her cold cheek.

In that moment all the hopelessness of his position, all the worthlessness of his marred existence, all the ignominy preparing for him when he returned to the camp, rushed over his mind.

In that moment the worst horrors of departure and death, the fiercest rackings of love and despair, assailed but did not overcome him.

In that moment he paid his final tribute to the dues of affection, and braced for the last time the fibres of manly dauntlessness and Spartan resolve! The next instant he tore himself from the girl's arms, the old hero-spirit of his conquering nation possessed every nerve in his frame, his eye brightened again gloriously with its lost warrior-light, his limbs grew firm, his face was calm, he confronted the Huns with a mien of authority and a smile of disdain, and, as he presented to them his defenceless breast, not the faintest tremor was audible in his voice, while he cried in accents of steady command-- 'Strike! I yield not!' The Huns rushed forward with fierce cries, and buried their swords in his body.