one will not desert, will not deceive, and will not
quench the fire, even though all in whom I place trust should desert and
deceive me. Hence I said to thee in my soul, How can I show gratitude to
thee, if not with love and honor? Didst thou feel that in Antium I spoke
and conversed with thee all the time as if thou hadst been at my side? I
love thee a hundred times more for having escaped me from Caesar's house.
Neither do I care for Caesar's house any longer; I wish not its luxury
and music, I wish only thee. Say a word, we will leave Rome to settle
somewhere at a distance."

Without removing her head from his shoulder, Lygia, as if
meditating, raised her eyes to the silver tops of the cypresses, and
answered,--"Very well, Marcus. Thou hast written to me of Sicily, where
Aulus wishes to settle in old age." And Vinieius interrupted her with
delight.

"True, my dear! Our lands are adjacent. That is a wonderful coast,
where the climate is sweeter and the nights still brighter than in Rome,
odoriferous and transparent. There life and happiness are almost one and
the same."

And he began then to dream of the future.

"There we may forget anxieties. In groves, among olive-trees, we shall
walk and rest in the shade. O Lygia! what a life to love and cherish
each other, to look at the sea together, to look at the sky together, to
honor together a kind God, to do in peace what is just and true."

Both were silent, looking into the future; only he drew her more firmly
toward him, and the knight's ring on his finger glittered meanwhile in
the rays of the moon. In the part occupied by the poor toiling people,
all were sleeping; no murmur broke the silence.

"Wilt thou permit me to see Pomponia?" asked Lygia.

"Yes, dear one. We will invite them to our house, or go to them
ourselves. If thou wish, we can take Peter the Apostle. He is bowed
down with age and work. Paul will visit us also,--he will convert Aulus
Plautius; and as soldiers found colonies in distant lands, so we will
found a colony of Christians."

Lygia raised her hand and, taking his palm, wished to press it to her
lips; but he whispered, as if fearing to frighten happiness,--"No,
Lygia, no! It is I who honor thee and exalt thee; give me thy hands."

"I love thee."

He had pressed his lips to her hands, white as jessamine, and for a
time they heard only the beating of their own hearts. There was not the
slightest movement in the air; the cypresses stood