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.

CHAPTER II.

Yes—the priestess—the proud priestess is now the happy, yet fearing, mother. See her clasping her children, and turning, affrightedly, to the mouth of their cavern-house at every sound, however slight.

The sound increases—’tis a footstep! The children are hurried away, and the next moment Adalgisa is at the feet of the high priestess.

She tremblingly tells the story of her love. But the proud Norma is not angry—does not upbraid her! Why? Does she not think of the time when Pollione whispered loving vows to her?

At last she asks, “Who is he—thy lover?”

“Not a Gaul—a Roman.”

“A Roman—and he is named—”

Again a footstep. This time a rapid, haughty one—’tis that of Pollione. Well he knows the entrance to the house. He comes to see Norma. As he marks Adalgisa he starts. And she, the young maiden, says, “This is he—this is he who loves me.”

“He—Pollione!” See Norma standing proudly, and yet as though turned to stone.

“The very one.”

“He!—do I hear—do I see?”

O, the world of anger on her face as she looks upon the man before her. Now she knows why he has deserted her. Now she learns the meaning of his cold words and frequent absences. Then vengeance whispers her—she has but to call, and they shall both die—he, the traitor, and this weak, cruel girl! Then jealousy swept over her, and she eagerly looked at her rival. But Adalgisa coming trembling and kneeling near her, and standing far away from the Roman, she was full of pity, and she said:—

“I would that thou hadst died—I would that thou hadst died before thou hadst seen him.”

Threateningly raising his hand, he turned to go his way, but she commanded him to stay; and in spite of himself he did remain. Again rage possessed her.

“I read thy thoughts—but is she not in my power—can I not destroy her?”

“Thou shalt not do this!”

“And shalt thou stay my hand?”

He ran to Adalgisa and implored her to fly with him—but the virgin drew back from him, and again clung to Norma. But the priestess, jealous to blindness, flung the maiden from her, and bade her follow her paramour.

“Ah! no—ah! no—Norma.”

Suddenly she relented—bent down quickly and kissed the acolyte. Then she rose toweringly high and bade him depart.

“Begone—forget thy vows, thy vows—begone! I curse thee. My voice shall whisper to thee on the winds and in the waves. Go—alone! She shrinks from thee, she whom thou wouldst destroy—I defy thee. Go—alone.”

He met her look at first—but soon quailed before her. Then with his eye down-cast, he moved towards Adalgisa—but Norma stood defyingly between them.

So conquered—he turned, and left the place.

Behold her before the kneeling girl—her face towards him as he creeps away; firm, defying, protecting—she has conquered him—she, the sinning high priestess; she, but a woman; she, one of a conquered race—Norma! She has fought and beaten the powerful Roman. She stands proudly, defiantly; he creeps away abashed, his very life her gift, the gift of her whom he has deserted.

CHAPTER III.

Who is this, creeping towards two sleeping children? Who is this with an uplifted dagger, and an awful frown upon her face? ’Tis Norma—mad with jealousy and hate, stealing in the dark to kill his children and her own.

Nearer and nearer the infants—nearer still; they are sleeping—they will not see the hand that strikes them—a loving hand—loving hand! “If—if I do not destroy them—if they live here, soon or late the flaming pyre will steal them. If—if in Rome, they would be slaves! No, no, never slaves! Let them die. Why can I not strike—are they not Pollione’s children? What are they to me? He is dead to me—let them die also.”

She raises the savage knife, high—higher still. Then she lets fall the blade. They are her sons—they are her sons! And fearing for herself, she calls to Clotilda, the faithful keeper of her secret, and bids her seek out and bring Adalgisa to the cavern—once a home!

“Adalgisa, I am sick to death. I will tell thee all my shame. Thou hast knelt to me—ah well! I now kneel to thee. Take them—my children, and guard them well—for no more have they a mother. Lead them to him—lead them to him—bid them kneel before him! Perchance to Adalgisa a kinder husband he may be than he has been to Norma! Take them; watch over them. I ask not for them fortune, honors. I only ask that they may not be slaves, abandoned and forgotten. Ah! remember, Adalgisa, ’twas for thee he did forget me.”

“Ah! Norma—hope yet—hope ever. I’ll to the Roman camp, and move his pity; and all may yet be well; hope on, hope ever.”

High and proud yet, the priestess forbade the girl to seek Pollione; but, turning to her children, for their sake she faltered; and at last bade Adalgisa go.

So away to the Roman camp went the maiden; while sick at heart, the high priestess lay in the cavern, weeping.

Meanwhile, the Druids were planning a surprise and massacre of the Roman camp. In spite of the high priestess’s commands, they had met to plot, and at their head stood Oroveso, her father. Angrily, and with heavy brows, they met; angrily, and with heavy brows, they separated—nerving themselves for the coming blow.

CHAPTER IV.

Again she stands near the altar—this time the sacred spot where hangs the symbolic shield, which, being struck, gives forth the sound of thunder. None but Norma may raise this dreaded warning—none.

As she stood near the altar, she thought, would Adalgisa be successful? Would he return to her, repentant and loving? And as she asked herself these questions, behold the sun was overcast, and thunder muttered in the air.

Suddenly Clotilda ran in; her features had told her message of dismay—Adalgisa had wept and prayed in vain.

As she stood there, her first thought was her madness in letting the virgin go; that she could have been so weak as to let him look upon her. Why—why if she prayed and knelt to him, she was but more beautiful, and more surely drew his love upon her. Then she thought that Adalgisa had planned the appeal to the Roman but to escape from her fury. Then suddenly she relents, for the messenger tells how Roman honor has overcome temptation. How the herald has been held sacred, and a free passage given her back to the sacred forest. Her face softens as Clotilda tells how the virgin humbly prays that she may take the vows, and dedicate herself to the service of the Temple. And now again her face is angered; ’tis at the last news the messenger has brought, that Pollione has vowed to tear Adalgisa from the very Temple—from the very altar.

“Let the blood of the base Romans flow,” she cried. Then quickly she turned to the golden shield, the sound of which emulated the rolling thunder, and beat on it three times.

Then arose the sacred answering cry of the Druids, and from all sides came they running towards the sound—masses on masses—their weapons in their hands. On they came—in they rushed, till the whole temple was filled—a forest of angry steel ready to bathe in Roman blood.

“War!” she cried—“extermination—slaughter! Sing ye the hymn of battle.”

Up rose the sacred hymn—high-sounding amidst the waving oaks—floating away on the winds, and threatening the southern invaders. Louder and louder spread the sacred war cry—death, destruction, extermination!—“Let the Romans fall! Let their legions be mown down like grass!—Let the wings of their eagles strike the ground. May our god descend on the rays of the sun to bless and rejoice in the triumph of his faithful children.”

Then she trembles in her passion as she sees the high priest, her own father, prepare to ask the question she knows that he must ask.

“And the victim?”

The victim! When the stern, savage Druids warred, they called for a human victim, as a sacrifice to their gods—as an offering and atonement for their sins—as a sacrifice worthy to propitiate their gods to grant them victory.

“And the victim?”

Slowly she replies:—“The terrible altar never lacks a victim!”

Suddenly rose loud cries of anger; and through the thick throng of worshippers there ran several armed Gauls, bearing in their midst a man dressed in Roman garments.

“A Roman found in the sacred temple.”

Who was this man—this Roman? She, Norma, trembled as she saw him; and she whispered the word “Pollione!”

There was a suppressed cry of joy amongst the Druids—their gods had sent this sacrifice—this Roman, their enemy, who had dared to enter the sacred forest.

“Take thou the sacred sword and slay him.”

He who spoke was Oroveso; she who heard—she who stretched forth her hand for the weapon—was Norma.

And as she took the sword, the Druids saw the Roman start and turn pale, and they said amongst themselves that he was afraid.

Slowly she came down from the altar, the shining weapon in her hand. Slowly she came near him—not a pitying look upon her face. Slowly she lifted the sword against him, as he raised his arm to receive the blow. And then—then she was weak; and she, the high priestess, let fall the point of the sacred weapon from before the enemy and the victim. In a mighty voice they called forth—“Slay him!”

But she said she must question him, and bade them retire for a little space.

Slowly and angrily they departed, and left her standing alone with him in the Temple.

“So at last thou art in my power. There is no hope for thee.”

“I do not fear thee.”

“Now swear—swear that from this hour thou wilt think no more of Adalgisa, and I will give thee life, and thou shalt go from before mine eyes.”

“I will not swear.”

“Dost thou know that my rage is terrible?”

“I fear not thy rage.”

“And thy children?”

As she spoke he trembled, and with a cry of joy she cried out that he feared her at last.

“Spare them—spare them. Let me die alone.”

“Thee alone?—all the Romans who are in Gaul shall die, and even Adalgisa shall perish in the flames.”

“Pity!—pity!”

“What? Canst thou ask pity of Norma? Ah! she knows no more what pity is. See how I sate myself—how I glory in thy fear for her, and for yourself! Thou shalt suffer, as I have suffered.”

Then she struck the sacred shield once more, and again the priests and the armed men came swarming to the Temple.

“Behold” she cried, “I have found another victim to your rage. A priestess forsworn; who hath forsworn her vows; who hath betrayed her country; who hath angered the god of her people!”

With one vast shout they asked for her name.

“Build the pile,” she said.

Again they cried out for the name of the accursed.

Then over her heart swept a flood of pity for the maiden she was about to denounce. “What right had she, a guilty wretch, to revenge herself upon an innocent creature? Had not Adalgisa pitied her? had she done her any wrong? Could the poor girl save herself from loving the traitor? Had not she herself, she, Norma, fallen?”

As she hesitated, the crowd about her again demanded the offender’s name.

Yet she hesitated. Then, turning to the trembling Roman, who each moment feared to hear her name the name of Adalgisa, the high priestess raised her right hand to her head, took from it the holy wreath, worn as the badge of purity; bent low her head, and said, “I—I am that guilty one!” So her better nature had conquered. All pride and anger gone! In her rage she would have denounced Adalgisa; but her sense of justice triumphed, and she denounced herself.

With a world of shame and repentance seething within him, the Roman cried, “No! believe her not, she speaketh knowing not what she sayeth!”

Still hiding her face, she said, “Norma speaketh the shameful truth!” And she saw her white-headed father draw away, degraded, from his brethren.

She crept up to her husband, and in her looks she told him what a loving wife he had destroyed. Then she whispered it was a destiny that they should die together, their ashes mingling on the same pile, and the same winds scatter them abroad.

All his old love for her returned in this sublime moment. Joy—a dying joy for her filled all his soul. She saw him look upon her as of old, with loving eyes, though they were now filled with pitying tears. “Pardon!” he cried—the most blessed words she could hear; for women will die that they may forgive men; “Pardon!”

But ere she could speak, her father crept up to her, and whispered that she had spoken falsely—that she was not so fallen—that she was yet pure. Then aloud he cried, “If the unyielding god who sees us holds back his angry thunder thou art guiltless!” Again he whispered, “Norma—my daughter—thou art guiltless.”

What is it that she says which makes him start in horror? What is it that makes the blood redden his aged forehead? She has told him of her children—her living children.

He draws his robe from her, as though pollution were in her touch. His trembling feet bear him from her—his daughter—the once proud, magnificent high priestess.

But she follows him—prays to him to save them. Still his head is erect, and his eyes are tearless. She is his own flesh and blood. She bids him think of her own early days; she hoarsely cries that in a few minutes she shall be dead, and again she prays him to seek her children, who are with Clotilda, and to watch over them. Gradually his head falls lower and lower on his breast. At last, without fear of pollution, he lays his hand upon her head, and promises to fulfil her last desire.

The angry priests, muttering together, draw near—fall upon her, fling over her the black veil of death, and bear her away to the burning pile.

High blaze the flames, lapping about her—falls on the body of the slain husband the flickering red light—the Roman, who has died, pierced by scores of wounds.

The victim is sacrificed. Let them march on to victory. Their god is appeased! the sin which was amongst them, which has drawn the favor of heaven from them, is purged away by fire. Now, let the Romans fall—let Gaul be free!

High blaze the flames, the red reflexions shimmering from each white-robed priest, from the robes even of her weeping father. Higher and higher till the victim is turned to light ashes for the wind to drift whithersoever it will!