CHAPTER I.

Rome, all powerful, had thrown out her arms to the east and the west, to the north and to the south, and boasted of being mistress of the world. She had conquered all Germany and Spain, and overcome the Gauls; and not only the Gauls, but the Druids, that powerful and wonderful priesthood, the relics of whose mysterious rites yet remain in various parts of the world.

This priesthood rose several times against the Roman yoke, and proved over and over again that they were not wanting in bravery, daring, or hardihood.

At the conquest of Gaul, the Pro-Consul appointed to Cambria, was named Pollione. Near his palace was the sacred Druidic Forest, within which dwelt the mysterious priesthood.

The High Priest was Oroveso; but higher in the awe and veneration of the Gauls stood his daughter Norma. Proud, beautiful, and cold, she stood amongst them, uttering the decrees of their faith, and believed by all to be inspired of God. All bowed before the High Priestess--the spotless virgin.

But ah! was she spotless--pure? No! seen by the Roman Governor but to be loved by him, she had forgotten her state, her holiness--and soon she was his wife.

Yet she was the High Priestess before the people, and the priests trembled as she passed them; while she herself often trembled as she performed the mystic symbolic rites, and she thought of her children. For she had two children--this proud, reverenced, high priestess--children whom she loved when no eyes beheld her but their own; often she ran to their little bedsides when she feared they might have been discovered; but up to the time when their father changed towards her, no one but herself, their father, and the faithful Clotilda, knew of their existence.

For the Roman grew cold to her, and often as she stood high and grand at the altar, her heart was beating. Yet she knew not why he had forsaken her.

Hark to the pompous march! List to the solemn step of marching hundreds! Who are these coming grandly in the night through the sacred grove? These are the Druids, the pure priests dressed in heavy white garments, their holy beards flowing to their chests.

See!--some of them speed to the hill-side to hail the moon’s up-rising, and they call their followers to prayers by the clashing of grave bells. When the moon, the emblem of their God, is throned in the boundless sky, Norma will come to gather the sacred miseltoe clinging to the holy oaks.

Hark, how they vow to destroy and sweep the Romans from the land! Grandly they pass away again, chanting till the still air is full of sound.

But who are these two, flitting from tree to tree?--they are not clothed in flowing white--there is the flash of metal from their limbs. They are not Gaul or Druids, they are Romans.

The one is Pollione--the other Flavio.

“Why comest thou to this sacred forest--has not Norma told thee death lies within?”

“Why hast thou uttered that dread name?”

Hark! he doth admit he loveth her no more; the mother of his children. His new love is a priestess too, and he calleth her Adalgisa; he hath entreated her to fly to Rome with him. Still he speaketh, when booming on the night air is heard the sound of bells, and behold the air is suffused with soft moonlight.

Then the Romans fled--for again the sacred march rippled through the air; louder and louder, as they came to the high altar. Norma--proud as ever; defying fear and walking grandly amidst them all.

On she comes to the sacred oak, bearing a golden reaping hook in her right hand. High she mounts the steps of the grand altar, as the sacred fires flicker in the breeze, and as the stately march rolls on. She knows there have been mutterings of hate against the Romans--fearlessly she bids them live in peace till she tells them to raise their arms. Terribly she threatens those who shall take no heed of what she says; she stands there in power unspeakable, and they tremble before her.

Then she cuts the sacred misletoe, and as it falls from the trees it is caught in a pure white cloth. High does the chief priestess cast her eyes to the placid moon, as she prays for its blessing.

“Chaste goddess, whose silver beams deign to fall on our sacred plant--let thy rays come to us unshadowed by a cloud. Calm these rash men who thirst for war; calm them; spread over our land the peace and quiet of thy boundless sky.”

See how they bow the head before their great high priestess as she addresses the greatest emblem of their faith.

Then she turns her face from the illuminating moon, and high above them speaks the ordeal which they believe their god speaks to them through her. See how they bow as she tells them she--she only will utter the war-cry--let their swords rest till she bids them flash from their scabbards.

The sacred rites are ended. Solemnly the reverend men have moved away. The priestess is perhaps fondling her two children. The sacred fires die out, and for a little the altar stands deserted in the midst.

Then comes Adalgisa, trembling and prostrate. See her kneeling before the altar, the sacred fires flickering dimly here and there. What a contrast is she to Norma, who walks proudly and fears naught! Adalgisa is bowing, trembling; no mighty prayer issues from her lips, but a timid appeal. Yet she thinks of the Roman who loves her and whom she loves. Then as she confesses this to herself, she bows lowly before the altar of the temple she has shamed; and yet heavily she trembles as she thinks of the chief priestess and the decree, if she but discovers that Adalgisa loves the enemy.

Still she is kneeling when the Roman comes creeping softly towards her.

She cries affrightedly as he touches her, and clings to the altar. Yet he speaks.

Hark how he pleads!

“Thou art weeping.”

“No, no; but I pray--thou durst not speak to me as I pray.”

“‘Tis a false God thou prayest to. Come with me--come with me--pray to the gods _I_ love--the true gods!”

“Let me go--let me go.”

“Where thou goest I follow, Adalgisa!”

“Thou mayest not follow me to the sacred Temple!”

“The Temple--hast thou not whispered that thou lovest me?”

“Yet do I offer myself to the service of the Temple.”

“Ah! if thou wouldst sacrifice--let my blood be shed. Thou wiliest my destruction.”

“Hast thou not willed mine? Didst thou not whisper to me as I knelt happy and innocent at the altar?”

“There are nobler altars in Rome, dearest. Wilt thou not kneel at them with me?”

“Rome--thou goest to Rome?”

“When the day dawns thou wilt go with me.”

“No, no.”

“To Rome and its pleasures. Doth not thy heart tell thee thou art willing to be with me?”

“Ah! I fear thee.”

“Yet thou lovest me.”

Hark, then--oh shame upon her priestly virgin robes; she promises to see him yet again, and then to fly with him.

See, she steals away, and she--her better nature rising--will to the arch-priestess go, and seek her assistance and advice.