begin from that
day.

"Have a care," answered Acte, "lest thou lose her forever the moment she
is found, at command of Caesar."

Vinicius wrinkled his brows. "What does that mean?" inquired he.

"Listen to me, Marcus. Yesterday Lygia and I were in the gardens here,
and we met Poppaea, with the infant Augusta, borne by an African woman,
Lilith. In the evening the child fell ill, and Lilith insists that
she was bewitched; that that foreign woman whom they met in the garden
bewitched her. Should the child recover, they will forget this, but
in the opposite case Poppaea will be the first to accuse Lygia of
witchcraft, and wherever she is found there will be no rescue for her."

A moment of silence followed; then Vinicius said,--"But perhaps she did
bewitch her, and has bewitched me."

"Lilith repeats that the child began to cry the moment she carried her
past us. And really the child did begin to cry. It is certain that she
was sick when they took her out of the garden. Marcus, seek for Lygia
whenever it may please thee, but till the infant Augusta recovers, speak
not of her to Caesar, or thou wilt bring on her Poppaea's vengeance. Her
eyes have wept enough because of thee already, and may all the gods
guard her poor head."

"Dost thou love her, Acte?" inquired Vinicius, gloomily.

"Yes, I love her." And tears glittered in the eyes of the freedwoman.

"Thou lovest her because she has not repaid thee with hatred, as she has
me."

Acte looked at him for a time as if hesitating, or as if wishing to
learn if he spoke sincerely; then she said,--"O blind and passionate
man--she loved thee."

Vinicius sprang up under the influence of those words, as if possessed.
"It is not true."

She hated him. How could Acte know? Would Lygia make a confession to her
after one day's acquaintance? What love is that which prefers wandering,
the disgrace of poverty, the uncertainty of to-morrow, or a shameful
death even, to a wreath-bedecked house, in which a lover is waiting with
a feast? It is better for him not to hear such things, for he is ready
to go mad. He would not have given that girl for all Caesar's treasures,
and she fled. What kind of love is that which dreads delight and gives
pain? Who can understand it? Who can fathom it? Were it not for the
hope that he should find her, he would sink a sword in himself. Love
surrenders; it does not take away. There were moments at the house of
Aulus when he himself believed in near