rushes near
Bissula's hut, and urged Nannienus to hasten. But the latter might
truthfully say with Homer: "Why dost thou urge one who is willing?" We
cannot make up in days for the neglect of months. The Emperor's own
miserable officials do him more harm than the Barbarians. And we do not
even know where these strange defenders of the country have vanished.

Ah, that reminds me of another anecdote of the little maid. How
constantly she steals into my thoughts! Of course--in jest and
earnest--we have tried to obtain information about the hiding--places
of the enemy from the only captive of whose possession hitherto we can
boast; but there we "victors" met with small success, as you may guess.

"Where are your heroes hiding?" I asked once laughing, toward the end
of a meal in my tent. "Truly, their heroism is as hard to find as
themselves."

"They will hardly have told this little maid," replied Saturninus. "For
Barbarian women can probably keep secrets no better than Roman ones.
She does not know."

"Yes, she does!" cried the rogue, pouting defiantly.

"Indeed? Then we'll question you," I cried, "on the rack."

"That isn't necessary. I am willing to tell."

"Well, where are they?" asked the Tribune seriously.

She glided out of the tent, thrust her head saucily through the
opening, and laughed mischievously: "They dwell with Odin and the nixie
in the lake. Search for them there yourself!" And she vanished.

Her favorite resting-place is at the foot of a huge pine-tree; it is
sacred, dedicated to a German goddess who, according to the
description, probably corresponds with Isis. I have repeatedly found
her there. Once she was swinging among the branches like a little bird.
She begged me not to betray her hiding-place to the others--the Tribune
and my nephew. She often liked to dream there all alone. Well, I
certainly shall not betray her. If _I_ know where to look for her, the
others shall not find her against her will.

IV. BEFORE THE KALENDS OF SEPTEMBER.

I regretted the artist's absence a short time since, and cannot get him
to come here. But perhaps Bissula will go later to the artist, to
Burdigala. How I wished it long ago! Oh, Paulus, if only I could show
her to you! The more I write of her and think of her, the more she
pleases me. Or perhaps the contrary is the case. I will write and think
of her no more.

* * * * *

You will not believe, my d