er lingered upon the
porticos, and the riders in gay chariots no more were to be seen. A
calmer and more quiet occupancy of the street had ensued. Here and there
a soldier paced to and fro, looking up at the moon and down again, at
the glistening river, and thought, perhaps, upon other night watches in
Gallia, when just such a moon had gleamed upon the silver Rhone. Here
and there two lovers, loth to abandon such a pleasant light and warmth,
strolled slowly along, and, as lovers have ever done, bade the moon
witness their vows. But not the river or the moonlight did AEnone now
linger to look upon, nor lovers' vows did she think about, as she glided
hastily toward her own home. The peacefulness and quiet of nature found
no response in her heart. Her only emotion was one of dread lest each
ray of light might shine too brightly upon her--lest even her walk might
betray her--lest every sound might be an unguarded recognition from the
poor, unconscious captive behind her.

At length she reached her home, passed up the broad flight of steps in
front, and stood panting within the doorway. A momentary pause ere she
entered, and then, unable to continue the control which she had so far
maintained over herself, she turned and cast one hasty, curious glance
below. The two new slaves of the centurion stood side by side in the
street, gazing up at the palace walls, the dwarf with a grin of almost
idiotic glee, the other with a grave air of quiet contemplation. But
what was that sudden look of startled recognition that suddenly flashed
across the features of the latter? Why did his face turn so ghastly pale
in the moonlight, and his limbs seem to fail him, so that he grasped his
companion's arm for support? AEnone shrank terrified into the obscurity
of the doorway.

But in an instant she recovered her self-possession. It must be that he
had been faint or giddy, nothing more. It could not have been
recognition that had startled him from his earnest contemplation, for he
had not been looking toward her, but, with his body half turned away,
had been gazing up at the highest story of the palace.

CHAPTER VI.

And now, having avoided the immediate peril of recognition, AEnone turned
into the palace. Even there, however, her disordered fancy pictured
dangers still encompassing her. How, after all, could she feel sure that
she had not been known? During that clear moonlight passage along the
Appian Way, what revelations might not have