ich a girl might
not say to her lover for the shame of them. I love you--I love you.
Take me before the maiden, Proserpine, that she may show us favour--to
your land--"

The lamp fell from her hand; she felt herself raised suddenly from the
pavement, and strained hard against a bosom that rose and fell with all
the pulsations of life and love. Frightened, wondering, she struggled
faintly, while kisses warm and human fell upon her brow, her eyes, her
lips.

"Marcia, little bird, dearest, purest, best," murmured a voice close to
her ear; "yes, you shall go with me to my land, and that land is Rome."

Still she trembled in his arms, not daring to believe.

"Wait," he said. Then, releasing her for a moment, he regained the
fallen lamp, relighted it and placed it in its niche, facing her again
with arms outspread.

"Look well; am I not indeed Lucius Sergius--once pierced and worn with
wounds, but now well and strong to fight or love? The tale I told you
was true. It was my tale--the saving of one Roman from the slaughter
of her legions."

She drew closer and looked again into his eyes.

"Yes," she said, and in her voice the joy began to sweep away all other
feelings; "yes, you are indeed Lucius Sergius Fidenas--man, not shade--"

But, taking her hand, he interrupted:--

"Do you not remember the omen, my Marcia? how you said you would love
me when Orcus should send back the dead from Acheron? how I accepted
it? how the gods have brought all about, as was most to their honour
and my joy?--for now you have indeed said that you love me."

She placed her free hand upon his shoulder saying:--

"And that which I, Marcia, daughter of Titus Manlius Torquatus, have
said unto the shade, that say I to the living Lucius Sergius. Take me,
love; for where thou art Caius, there shall I be Caia."

Once again he took her in his arms and kissed her upon the lips, long
and tenderly. Then she drew herself back.

"You are wounded?" she said anxiously. "Forgive me that I forgot.
Truly I forget all things, now--in this wonder and joy."

Sergius laughed.

"He pricked me--in the thigh, I think, but not deeply. The gods have
brought me so close to the shades that I am enough akin to them not to
heed little hurts."

But she had seized the lamp and was examining his injury--a flesh wound
that, while it had bled freely, yet seemed to have avoided the larger
muscles and blood-vessels.

"Did I not tell you?" he said reassurin