Читать книгу Neæra. A Tale of Ancient Rome - Graham John William - Страница 1

Anno Domini Twenty-six, Tiberius Caesar, the ruler of the world, left Rome, with a small retinue, never to return. In the following year he arrived at the island of Capreae, and there took up his permanent abode. It was a spot which already possessed substantial proofs of imperial favour, in the shape of villas, baths, and aqueducts built by the orders of the Emperor Augustus. It well merited the partiality displayed, for there are few places to be found more favoured by nature, in point of situation, than this small, lofty, iron-bound mountain-island of Capreae.

Opposite, at a distance of three miles, approaches the tip of a sharp promontory of the mainland, which divides two bays curving away on either hand. That on the north, from the earliest times, has had the reputation of being the loveliest in the world. That on the south, although not comparable, has yet considerable beauty. Capreae, therefore, stands aloof amid the blue waters, at the apex of these two semicircles, surveying both from its lofty mountain and sheer cliffs.

Why the Emperor Tiberius left Rome and secluded himself, for the remainder of his life, in this small island, away from the seat of his empire, has never, with certainty, been explained. Whether it was for political reasons, or for the purpose of giving full indulgence to those vicious habits which rumour so freely ascribed to him, is not within the scope of these pages to be determined. He hastened to continue to his new home those same marks of favour which his deified predecessor had begun. Armies of workmen assailed the summits of the cone-like hills and wave-washed cliffs. New villa-palaces arose on every hand, so that the narrow limits of the island hermitage might afford to Caesar the utmost variety possible. Of the twelve projected villas, each named after a deity, some three or four had been completed and occupied at the time of our story, whilst the building of the remainder was actively proceeding. In the autumn of the year thirty, the date of our story, Tiberius had hidden himself away from his people for about three years, and, already, dark rumours were flitting abroad of strange enormities and dread cruelties shrouded in that outline of mountain amid the sea. The seclusion of the imperial hermit was strictly preserved, and unauthorised feet were jealously warned from his rocky retreat. Curiosity became more inflamed and imagination more rampant. To turn the invisible Caesar into something akin to an ogre or monster was an easy and natural outcome of the insular mystery.

One thing, however, is certain, that, although lost, as the Emperor may be said to have been, to the eyes of the world, the world and its affairs, in turn, were never hidden from him. Caesar remained Caesar – sleepless, prompt and vigorous amid his mysterious rocks. Day after day, couriers came and went with tidings from every corner of the known world. The vast empire, like a sprawling giant, had Capreae for its heart, which impelled the life-blood ceaselessly to every extremity of its veins and arteries.

* * * * * * *

On an October morning, one of the long, swift boats, used in the imperial despatch service, left the landing-place in the little Marina, on the north side of Capreae, and shot away toward the barren promontory of Minerva opposite.

The vessel was one of a number used for the busy service of communication with the mainland, and was built on fine, sharp lines to attain high speed. Plenty of power was lent by the brawny arms of a dozen stout slaves, whose oars swept the craft along, with the gently rippling sea foaming under its sharp bows. The morning was bright, and a delicious autumn serenity softened mountain and sea with a mellow haze; so that in default of a breeze to fill the large sail stowed neatly away under the bulwarks, the rowers bent their backs with a will to their work.

There was one passenger on board – a young man with a soldierly air. He seemed not more than two or three-and-twenty years of age, with large, handsome, boldly-cut features, of the true Roman cast, and keen, dark eyes. The expression of his face, something stern and proud in repose, was, perhaps, heightened by a naturally dark complexion, still swarthier with sun and wind. He lay wrapped in a large military cloak, beside the steersman, whose chatter he acknowledged, now and again, by a nod, or occasionally a brief word, or smile which softened all severity of visage with a gleam as bright as the sunny sky above.

After leaving the chill shadow of the terrific, perpendicular cliffs of the island, the passage across the straits to the mainland was rapidly made. As the vessel glided finally to its destination alongside a small landing parapet of stone, on the shore of the promontory, the young man arose, flung back his cloak, and sprang lightly ashore. He showed a manly stature of at least six feet, and a spare, sinewy frame of the best athletic build, deep in the chest and thin in the flank. No other garb, than that which clothed him, could more admirably display these fine proportions.

There was the richly-chased, polished cuirass, moulded closely to the lines of the body from throat to abdomen, and imitating them as accurately as a plaster cast. From this hung the short drapery of a kilt, or philibeg, nearly to the knee, leaving the leg, downward, bare to the high boots, which were laced up to the swell of the calf. The muscular arms of the young officer were likewise uncovered, save for a short way beneath the shoulder. The large cloak, before noticed, which hung gracefully from his left shoulder, greatly enhanced the effect of this military panoply, particularly suiting the tall stature of the wearer. It was fastened at the neck by a gold buckle, and could be shifted to either shoulder, or to the back, or wrapped around the body altogether. On military service, a polished, crested helmet would have completed the costume; but, at present, after the usual Roman fashion, the young man’s head bore no covering but its own dark, close-curling hair. For arms, he wore the short, straight, Roman sword, and a poniard.

Just as it may be remarked at the present day, of a certain exclusive portion of our own military service, so the unusual richness of the young officer’s appointments, as contrasted with those of the legionaries, denoted him to be one of the Pretorian Guard, the household troops, lately gathered into a permanent camp at Rome, and brought fairly into a position for entering on their future famous career in the affairs of the city and empire.

As he left the boat its crew saluted him. Returning the courtesy, he flung the perspiring slaves some pieces of money, and walked rapidly up the shore towards a group of buildings, comprising the posting establishment, which had newly sprung into existence, as a necessary adjunct to the Emperor’s abode. A signal had been waved from the despatch-boat before reaching the shore, and when he arrived at the door of the stables he found the ostlers awaiting him with a horse ready caparisoned for the road.

‘Back to Rome, Centurion?’ said one, saluting him.

‘Back to Rome,’ replied he, girding his cloak close around him.

‘A good journey!’ chorused the stablemen.

Two or three coins rattled on the gravel for answer, and the Pretorian vaulted on to the horse’s back, and galloped away.

Riding as rapidly as the path would permit, and without drawing rein, it was not long before the lovely plain of Surrentum broke on his view, embosomed in the circling vine and olive-clad mountains, edged by the blue waters of the sea, clothed with luxuriant fruit-groves, and studded with the villas of the noble and wealthy, who had retired hither to revel in the soft, salubrious air of this most lovely spot of a lovely land.

But our horseman paid little attention to the exquisite scene. His thoughts were otherwise absorbed. He passed the girdling hills, and closed with the town of Surrentum itself. At the posting station, in the midst, he changed horses and went on, scarcely giving time for an idle crowd to gather round. He did not, however, go very many hundred yards on his second stage, before he suddenly drew rein on the very outskirts of the town, where the last houses straggled out amid garden-plots and fields. It was at a point where a by-road debouched upon his own, almost at right angles. It seemed to lead back to the town by a roundabout course, and was lined on either side, in a straggling, intermittent way, by gardens and cottage-houses, in the manner of a country village street. The dwelling nearest to where he stood, at the end of the lane, was about a hundred yards distant. It was a small, humble house, like the majority of its neighbours, and was the outpost habitation of the town in that direction. It was detached and flanked on the town side by a small olive-grove. In the rear of the premises was an outbuilding; a workshop, to judge by its black, smoking chimney. The house itself was open-fronted as a shop.

The Centurion turned down this lane, and, when within a few yards of the house, dismounted and led his horse through a gap in a ruinous wall to the inside of the enclosure, where he tethered him amid some trees. Thence he walked up to the house, and looked inside the open shop, pausing with a fixed gaze.

The interior was fitted with shelves, on which was displayed a stock of pottery of a kind for which Surrentum was noted. It was not upon these, however, that the rapt eyes of the soldier rested, but upon the tall, lithe figure of a girl, who was busily engaged in taking the articles down and dusting them. Her back being toward him, he entered the shop with a stealthy step and stood behind her without her knowledge. Pausing, for a moment, to gaze upon the figure and the glossy coils of the luxuriant brown hair of the unconscious girl, he bent down and whispered in her ear the name ‘Neæra!’

She started violently, and the bowl, which she was wiping, fell from her fingers and shivered with a crash on the floor.

‘Oh, sir, is it you?’ she murmured.

Her cheeks flushed, and her eyes fell.

‘Yes, Neæra, it is I – but only for a few niggard moments. I am on my way back to Rome. ’Tis six weeks since I saw you, Neæra – you look pale! have you fared well?’

‘Quite well,’ was the brief, constrained reply.

‘And your father and mother?’

‘Both are well – they are within if you will be pleased to see them.’ She moved as if to go to the interior of the house, but he laid his hand gently on her arm and detained her.

‘In a moment, Neæra – do you wish to be rid of me?’

She gave a hasty, timid glance into the street, and he led her aside into a recess which was less overlooked.

‘You neither look at me nor speak, Neæra – are you displeased to see me? Would you rather have had the weary six weeks prolonged into twelve?’ She raised her head and looked at him with an appealing expression in her beautiful gray eyes, but, in a brief moment, her gaze fell once more. ‘Still you do not say whether I am welcome or not, Neæra?’ he persisted.

‘Spare me from an answer, I pray you,’ she replied, in an almost inaudible tone.

His swarthy cheeks flushed with a yet deeper colour, and he drew himself up. ‘As you will,’ he returned; ‘but if your answer would be “Nay,” say it without hesitation or fear; for I would have the truth from your heart, even at the expense of a little courtesy.’ Her agitation increased, and her fingers worked nervously with the dusting cloth she held. Those fingers, though stained and roughened with toil, were slenderly and delicately formed. He took them in his own, and, in spite of her attempt to withdraw them, kept them in his grasp.

‘What has happened, Neæra?’ said he, looking into her downcast face. ‘Has anything that I have done angered you, or rather, that I have left undone, since I have been chained to duty in yonder island for six weeks? It is long indeed, but we must reflect that had the Prefect no business with Caesar then our meetings would be far seldomer. To Caesar and Prefect I owe the happy chance of seeing you, and on them for a while still depend future opportunities. But what is troubling you, Neæra? You are pale and worn – what has happened?’

‘Nothing but reflection – ah, sir, have pity on me – it was better not to have returned at all.’

‘Ah, is it so? – that is easily mended!’ he replied, in bitter astonishment.

‘Don’t blame – don’t kill me with scornful tones!’ she said, with more courage, even though the courage of despair; ‘think, as I have been thinking through these bitter weeks – oh, so bitter! It is right – it is just that you see me no more. What is there in common between us? I am a poor potter’s girl – am rude in speech and manner; you are nobly born and rich – ’ Her voice trembled with extreme agitation, and she stopped abruptly as if she could trust it no longer. A smile of infinite tenderness and pity illumined his fine features.

‘Had I needed but one thing more to clench my love, you have given it me,’ he said, catching her hands again and drawing her towards him.

‘No – it were better to love one of your own station,’ she panted, trying to repulse him.

‘It is too late to tell me that. Come, look at me, child!’

‘No, I have been foolish and am to blame. I ought to have seen that your way of life cannot be mine. My father has also said it, and he is wise.’

‘Ay, he has said it, but you?’

‘I say it is truth and must be followed.’

‘Foolish! You only bind me the faster to you. Your joint wisdom is vain against my conviction. What! are we to part because a weak, foolish fancy seizes you, that your speech and bearing are not like the artificial, superfine graces of the proud dames who loll away their lives in palaces? Gods forbid! Why, there are those of your sex in Rome – ay, even in Surrentum, who would deem me as the dust beneath their feet.’

‘And there are others, also, whom you would look upon in the same fashion,’ replied the girl.

‘True! and many of them of family and wealth far beyond mine.’

‘Yet what you have of both is far above me, and therefore, between us, all remains the same.’

‘Surrentum cannot better you in a lawyer’s wit, Neæra,’ he said, with a smile, ‘but you spend it in so poor a cause. There remains something far beyond rank and wealth.’

‘Whatever it is, it is not for us in common,’ she said, striving to appear calm; ‘it is over now. I have been weak and foolish, and oh, how I have suffered for it! Forgive me, Centurion, if you can forgive me – go from me and forget me – all our folly.’ As she looked him full in the face there was a depth of anguish in her eyes which filled him alike with pity and joy. At the same time she held out her hand, but he folded his arms across his breast. ‘Centurion!’ he repeated, in a tone of reproof; ‘Neæra, have you forgotten my name?’

His bearing and speech throughout had never shown a sign of hesitation which might have encouraged her in her determination. He stood before her vast, immovable, and calmly resolute. Her glance drooped, and her outstretched hand and arm gradually fell to her side. Then she buried her face in her hands.

He bent closer till his breath played on her hair. ‘Neæra,’ he said, ‘you have been kinder and called me Lucius ere now. Enough of this madness – this folly of saws and maxims! Misdoubting girl, I love you for what you are, and above all on this earth. To thrust me away were to wreck me wholly; and you would not though you possess the power. For I have gathered it from your lips, your eyes, your sweet face, that you have some measure of love for me in return. Is it not so? Speak, Neæra!’

She trembled violently, and, yielding to an irresistible impulse, he threw his arms around her and pressed a fervent kiss upon her cheek.

She freed herself with a desperate exertion, and stood off, panting and shaking in extreme emotion, with her cheeks aflame.

‘Neæra!’ he ejaculated, advancing to her again.

‘No, no! Leave me – go and forget me, if you would be merciful and kind! – oh, you are cruel! Alas, can I ever look in my father’s face again!’

The sound of a footstep in the passage leading to the interior broke upon their ears. She cast one swift look of lofty reproach, mingled with sorrow, upon the young man, and then drooped her head upon her breast.

A short, thick-set man presented himself in the shop. His hands, his coarse garments, and even his face, were stained with the grime of the furnace and the smearings of clay; but through these outward tokens of the common artisan shone the unmistakable signs of superior intellect, in the brilliancy of his eyes, deep set under thick brows, and in a massive forehead, which was very broad and full at the base. His hand, which he raised with a gesture of surprise, as his gaze rested on the young couple, was of the shape usually supposed to be peculiar to the gifted artist and mechanic, being long, square-tipped, and sinewy, with an immense flexibility and power of thumb. Reading the tell-tale faces of the pair with a rapid glance, his countenance instantly assumed a grave sternness, unlike the preoccupied expression which previously rested upon it.

‘What – Centurion! Martialis!’ he said, coldly, and even with an amount of haughtiness which might, ordinarily, have been deemed incommensurate with the relative stations of himself and his visitor.

Although his tone was quiet and free from anger or emotion of any kind, there was an unusual quality in it which seemed to strike the girl not the less acutely, for she hid her pale face in her hands.

‘Yes, Masthlion, even I!’ returned the Pretorian, stepping forward and offering his hand.

Masthlion met the open, frank gaze of the young officer for a moment; then, as if not noticing the proffered greeting, he dropped his eyes to the floor and remained for a few seconds in deep thought. Then raising his head he said —

‘Centurion, I should be grieved to say that you are unwelcome, yet, I say plainly, that the honour of your visit is not altogether free from that feeling. Not from personal dislike, I am bound to say. I will be frank with you. I am a poor fellow, who earns a modest living for my family by the hard labour of my hands. You are of the knightly order, and hold high office in Caesar’s service. You are wholly above the station of me and mine. As you do not honour my humble dwelling for the sake of buying my handiwork in the way of trade, I have, therefore, a right to reflect and inquire what object your presence has.’

‘You have a perfect right, Masthlion,’ replied the other, ‘and, although you know, as I think, right well already, I commend your method of putting the matter thus plainly. I have as little inclination to allow any misunderstanding and ambiguity to creep about my actions as you have, and I will, therefore, give you freely, and without hesitation, an answer as clear as your question – I love your daughter Neæra!’

The potter nodded in a manner which showed that the reply was no other than expected. His glance roved from one to the other, whilst his daughter’s head drooped so low that her face was completely hidden.

‘It is a matter which demands further talk, and, as there is no reason why it should take place in the sight of neighbours and passers-by, perhaps you will enter my poor house, Centurion.’

‘Willingly – I desire nothing better,’ was the reply.

Masthlion, heaving a deep sigh, took his daughter by the hand and led the way along the inner passage. Martialis followed them into a small room, furnished simply with a table, some stools, and a couch; whilst, for ornament, some brackets and shelves bore a few exquisitely-finished specimens of glasswork, together with some small figures sculptured in stone, the fruits of the potter’s self-taught genius. From the door Masthlion called aloud for his wife, and she hastily appeared. She was a spare woman, with patient eyes. Her face had been comely, but was worn and faded with the hardship and anxiety of a long struggle against hunger and want in their early wedded life.

A significant glance passed between her and her husband as she perceived what had occasioned the demand for her presence.

She made a silent obeisance to the visitor, and waited for her husband to speak.

As for Neæra, she stood with her head still bowed on her breast.

Her lover’s tall, erect form, draped in its ample flowing cloak, seemed to fill the little room. His eyes rested with calm confidence on Masthlion, who began in grave measured tones: —

‘Wife, the Centurion Martialis hath told me that he loves our daughter.’ Here he paused a few moments, looking on the floor. ‘What we should tell him is this, that she is our only child, the one light of our house. But had we twenty, we must be assured, as far as possible, of good and honourable keeping ere we let one go from our roof. You understand this, Centurion?’

‘Perfectly; it is only natural and proper. Do what you think best for your assurance.’

‘First, then! is it from mere fancy that you would try to take my daughter away, and then to cast her off when that fancy has burnt itself out, after the fashion of many of your order?’

‘No,’ said the young man, drawing himself up with sparkling eyes; ‘I told you I loved her – now I tell you she must be my wife, or none other.’

‘And are you sure you would always rest in the same mind as now?’

‘Ah, as far as human thought and perception can go, I have no doubt of it,’ returned Martialis proudly.

Masthlion shook his head and sighed; and his wife, from long habit of waiting on his looks, unconsciously did the same, though without offering any remark of her own.

‘It is ever the way with the young – eager and heedless!’ said the potter. ‘Centurion, as an older man, and one who has not lived in the world with blind eyes, I must tell you that I disagree with you. You are attracted by the child’s fair looks, and you know not, or forget, that familiarity will weaken their influence over your senses. The gods made women fair to please the hearts of men; but, did they bestow upon them no other qualities, they would become nothing more than mere toys to be bandied about at will. Looks attract first; but it is the disposition, and the accomplishments of the mind, which are necessary to weave a lasting bond of esteem and love. Where, within these humble walls, has this poor child learnt those manners and graces which, from habit, you require, before all, in a companion? Where could she have gathered the refinements which would be necessary to the wife of one of your station? Could you present her to your fine friends and family? She would shame you at every turn – at every word. The first blush of your fancy would wear off. You would grow angry and disgusted. You would repent of your bargain, and the rest would be nothing but bitterness, reproaches, and unhappiness – if not worse. This is a picture more to be depended on than yours, Centurion. Go, therefore, and if you think over it, as you ought to do, without allowing your feelings to bias your reflections, you will see that I am right, and you will come no more. Thus there will be one rash, ill-advised affair the less in the world.’

‘Masthlion, your daughter has already told me this,’ answered the Centurion, with a smile.

‘Did she so?’ cried the potter, casting a look of pride and satisfaction at the girl. ‘Then she did wisely and obediently – and bravely too, if I guess aright. Alas! your proudest dames could have done no better. Come and kiss me, my brave girl!’

Neæra glided to him, and hid her face in his shoulder.

Martialis folded his arms and watched them. The potter had unconsciously dealt a deathblow to his own cause, if it needed one at all. Their eyes met at that moment. The acute perception, or instinct, of the artisan interpreted too well the calm, resolute light of the young man’s glance, so warm with the picture of the fair girl before him, and he groaned inwardly as he restlessly stroked his daughter’s glossy locks. He knew not what to say, so heavily did the sense of his helplessness press upon him.

‘It is a year since I stopped one day at the old fountain-basin yonder,’ said Martialis, stretching out his arm. ‘I had ridden far and was thirsty, and Neæra was filling her pitcher. It was thus I met her first. I went on my way, but her image haunted my mind. I sought her again, and discovered that her looks did not belie her heart. I have chosen her to fill my mind, even as you would have me choose; not from a light fancy of the eyes alone, but because I know she is pure, noble, and good in spirit. As for the rest, you may magnify, from ignorance, my position and importance. Neæra is naturally predisposed toward those trifling changes which you deem necessary, and she would glide into them instinctively and unconsciously. Masthlion, these arguments will be vain, so use them not. I ask you to give me your daughter Neæra, in betrothal.’

The potter did not reply straightway, but, smoothing the trembling girl’s head ceaselessly with his hand, he stood with his brow contracted in painful thought, and his eyes bent on the ground.

‘In good faith, Centurion,’ he said, after an uneasy silence, ‘you rend my heart between doubt and anxiety, and a desire to act generously as well as prudently. Can I deliver up my child to a stranger? Were you of this district I could judge better of you. You are honest and fair-spoken, and your looks correspond to your speech. But yet you are no more than a stranger, and Surrentum knows you not.’

‘I would fetch Rome, if I could, to aid you,’ said the young man. ‘You are pleased to be satisfied with my appearance; I, for my part, will await your further inquiries with confidence.’

‘I have no suspicion of your character, noble sir, but prudence requires proof. I cannot give you a decided answer, for now we are at odds and evens. You are sanguine and confident of the future; I am not. Hawks should pair only with hawks, and sparrows with sparrows. More words at present, however, would be spent to no purpose – the matter requires time and reflection.’

‘The child Neæra is not goods or chattels, husband – is she to have no word for herself?’ remarked his wife quietly.

‘Ay, truly, Tibia; thou hast ever a word in season,’ answered the potter to his delighted spouse. ‘The gods forgive me for a thoughtless blockhead. It would be a fine way of making a pot without first proving if the clay be fit. What say you, Neæra – do you love this young man?’

The girl clung closer, and buried her face deeper in his shoulder, but her silence was eloquent.

The soldier’s bronzed face gathered a deeper tinge, and his ears were strained to catch the accents which he expected to follow, but which came not.

‘Come, my child,’ continued Masthlion earnestly; ‘I want thee to say truly what thy heart prompts thee to say. If thou lovest him speak it then; there is no crime or harm in it that I can see. You have heard what has passed, and I can call your confession, if it is what I expect it to be, only by as hard a name as a misfortune. Speak!’

A simple ‘Yes’ was the reply, in a voice so low and yet so clear that it caused her lover’s blood to bound in his veins with exquisite joy. He stepped forward as if to take her, but the hand of Masthlion restrained his eager advance.

‘Enough,’ said the potter, ‘the mischief is done, it is clear, but yet the matter must rest as it is for a time. I am yet unconvinced, and I give not my consent so heedlessly to a partnership so brimful of hazard. I must be better assured. In the meantime, Centurion, I ask of thee one condition.’

Martialis was burning with eagerness, for his beloved now stood before him ready to his arms, with downcast eyes and cheeks blushing with sudden joy and hope.

‘Name it!’ he said quickly.

‘It is that you neither visit nor correspond with this child without my knowledge.’

‘It is no more than I have done hitherto,’ said Martialis.

‘I believe it, and it is much to your credit,’ returned Masthlion. ‘Now go, Centurion. Stand by our agreement; and may the gods direct the matter to the best end – for I need their help.’

‘Farewell!’ said the young man, reaching forward to clasp Neæra to his breast.

‘No!’ said the potter, once more stretching his ruthless arm before him.

The Centurion frowned; but the cloud fled when he saw the tender, curving lips of Neæra moving, as though silently fashioning his name, and her beautiful eyes, more beautiful still, with the light of love and hope and joy. From the divine smile on her face he drew consolation, as he grasped the earthy hand of the potter instead of hers.

With a lingering look he drew his cloak around him, and hastened away at a pace which received additional lightness and speed from his feelings. A couple of minutes more and he was galloping at a headlong speed on the road to Rome.

As soon as their visitor had departed, Masthlion withdrew to his workshop at the rear of his premises. He found it vain, however, to try and use his tools during the disturbed state of his mind; for every now and then he discovered himself standing motionless with them in his hand, his thoughts being far away. After a wasted half hour, therefore, he threw them down, and, washing his hands and face, left the house to wander away on a lonely ramble along the edge of the sea, and up the ravines of the hills, in order to give unrestrained liberty in his meditations.

The mountains were looming dark and purple in the gathering gloom, and a chilly breath from the dusky sea was stirring the leaves when he turned his steps homeward. He found his simple supper and his wife and daughter awaiting him. An unusual restraint weighed upon them all. The customary familiar chat was lacking, and the meal passed quickly and in silence.

When Neæra put her arms round her father’s neck for her nightly caress, she whispered, ‘Have I done wrong in loving him, father? Are you displeased with your Neæra?’

‘I am not displeased, child. I blame no one for loving; yet would I be less anxious had you loved some humbler man.’

‘He is noble and good, father.’

‘The gods grant it true.’

‘If you will it I will see him no more.’

‘Nay, you talk foolishly – I hope I am neither harsh nor selfish. Get to bed, child, and try if you can sleep, though your heart be galloping, this moment, to Rome.’

‘Say you are not angry with me then!’ she murmured.

‘I blame you not, silly girl; I blame six feet or more of human flesh, and a handsome face, which hath beguiled your silly girlish thoughts. Heaven only knows how much more mischief of the same nature they are guilty of already, for I do not – now go!’

Her lips pouted a little, but she left the room with a light step.

The firm, determined mouth of the man quivered, and the moisture dimmed his deep-set eyes. He passed his hand over his massive brow and gave a deep sigh.

‘Wife!’ he said briefly, ‘I am going to Rome.’

‘To Rome!’ echoed Tibia fearfully, for the mention of the great city always loaded her simple rustic mind with a sense of mystery and danger.

‘Ay, to Rome,’ rejoined Masthlion; ‘the time has come when I must try and find your brother, if alive. Silo will give me a passage in his trader – ’tis about his time to be touching here Tiberward.’