tinually, had not known. He could not hide the thought in himself,
and said, turning to Pomponia,--"I am considering in my soul how
different this world of yours is from the world which our Nero rules."

She raised her delicate face toward the evening light, and said with
simplicity,--"Not Nero, but God, rules the world."

A moment of silence followed. Near the triclinium were heard in the
alley, the steps of the old general, Vinicius, Lygia, and little Aulus;
but before they arrived, Petronius had put another question--"But
believest thou in the gods, then, Pomponia?"

"I believe in God, who is one, just, and all-powerful," answered the
wife of Aulus Plautius.

Chapter III

"SHE believes in God who is one, all-powerful, and just," said
Petronius, when he found himself again in the litter with Vinicius. "If
her God is all-powerful, He controls life and death; and if He is
just, He sends death justly. Why, then, does Pomponia wear mourning for
Julius? In mourning for Julius she blames her God. I must repeat this
reasoning to our Bronzebeard, the monkey, since I consider that in
dialectics I am the equal of Socrates. As to women, I agree that each
has three or four souls, but none of them a reasoning one. Let Pomponia
meditate with Seneca or Cornutus over the question of what their great
Logos is. Let them summon at once the shades of Xenophanes, Parmenides,
Zeno, and Plato, who are as much wearied there in Cimmerian regions as
a finch in a cage. I wished to talk with her and with Plautius about
something else. By the holy stomach of the Egyptian Isis! If I had told
them right out directly why we came, I suppose that their virtue would
have made as much noise as a bronze shield under the blow of a club.
And I did not dare to tell! Wilt thou believe, Vinicius, I did not dare!
Peacocks are beautiful birds, but they have too shrill a cry. I feared
an outburst. But I must praise thy choice. A real 'rosy-fingered
Aurora.' And knowest thou what she reminded me of too?--Spring! not our
spring in Italy, where an apple-tree merely puts forth a blossom here
and there, and olive groves grow gray, just as they were gray before,
but the spring which I saw once in Helvetia,--young, fresh, bright
green. By that pale moon, I do not wonder at thee, Marcus; but know that
thou art loving Diana, because Aulus and Pomponia are ready to tear thee
to pieces, as the dogs once tore Actaeon."

Vinicius was silent a time without raisi