, so
long as she had her philosophers to argue with, who knew how to ply her
with delicate flattery?

Then Plautilla, his wife? His father had compelled him to marry her,
the richest heiress in the world, whose dowry had been larger than the
collected treasure of a dozen queens; and as he thought of the sharp
features of that insignificant, sour-faced, and unspeakably pretentious
creature, he shuddered with aversion.

He had banished her, and then had her murdered. Others had done the
deed, and it did not strike him that he was responsible for the crime
committed in his service; but her loveless heart, without a care for
him--her bird-sharp face, looking out like a well-made mask from her
abundant hair--and her red, pinched lips, were very present to him. What
cutting words those lips could speak; what senseless demands they had
uttered; and nothing more insolent could be imagined than her way of
pursing them up if at any time he had suggested a kiss!

His child? One had been born to him, but it had followed its mother into
exile and to the grave. The little thing, which he had scarcely known,
was so inseparable from its detested mother that he had mourned it no
more than her. It was well that the assassins, without any orders from
him, should have cut short that wretched life. He could not long for the
embraces of the monster which should have united Plautilla's vices and
his own.

Among the men about his person, there was not one for whom other hearts
beat warmer; no creature that loved him excepting his lion; no spot
on earth where he was looked for with gladness. He waited, as for some
marvel, to see the one human being who had spontaneously entreated the
gods for him. The girl must probably be a poor, tearful creature, as
weak of brain as she was soft-hearted.

There stood the centurion at the head of his maniple, and raised his
staff. Enviable man! How content he looked; how clearly he spoke the
word of command! And how healthy the vulgar creature must be--while he,
Caesar, was suffering that acute headache again! He gnashed his teeth,
and felt a strong impulse to spoil the happiness of that shameless
upstart. If he were sent packing to Spain, now, or to Pontus, there
would be an end of his gladness. The centurion should know what it was
to be a solitary soul.

Acting on this malignant impulse, he had raised his hand to his mouth to
shout the cruel order to a tribune, when suddenly the clouds parted, and
t