The girl clung closer, and buried her face deeper in his shoulder, but her silence was eloquent. The soldier’s bronzed face gathered a deeper tinge, and his ears were strained to catch the accents which he expected to follow, but which came not. ‘Come, my child,’ continued Masthlion earnestly; ‘I want thee to say truly what thy heart prompts thee to say. If thou lovest him speak it then; there is no crime or harm in it that I can see. You have heard what has passed, and I can call your confession, if it is what I expect it to be, only by as hard a name as a misfortune. Speak!’ A simple ‘Yes’ was the reply, in a voice so low and yet so clear that it caused her lover’s blood to bound in his veins with exquisite joy. He stepped forward as if to take her, but the hand of Masthlion restrained his eager advance. ‘Enough,’ said the potter, ‘the mischief is done, it is clear, but yet the matter must rest as it is for a time. I am yet unconvinced, and I give not my consent so heedlessly to a partnership so brimful of hazard. I must be better assured. In the meantime, Centurion, I ask of thee one condition.’ Martialis was burning with eagerness, for his beloved now stood before him ready to his arms, with downcast eyes and cheeks blushing with sudden joy and hope. ‘Name it!’ he said quickly. ‘It is that you neither visit nor correspond with this child without my knowledge.’ ‘It is no more than I have done hitherto,’ said Martialis. ‘I believe it, and it is much to your credit,’ returned Masthlion. ‘Now go, Centurion. Stand by our agreement; and may the gods direct the matter to the best end—for I need their help.’ ‘Farewell!’ said the young man, reaching forward to clasp Neæra to his breast. ‘No!’ said the potter, once more stretching his ruthless arm before him. The Centurion frowned; but the cloud fled when he saw the tender, curving lips of Neæra moving, as though silently fashioning his name, and her beautiful eyes, more beautiful still, with the light of love and hope and joy. From the divine smile on her face he drew consolation, as he grasped the earthy hand of the potter instead of hers. With a lingering look he drew his cloak around him, and hastened away at a pace which received additional lightness and speed from his feelings. A couple of minutes more and he was galloping at a headlong speed on the road to Rome. As soon as their visitor had departed, Masthlion withdrew to his workshop at the rear of his premises. He found it vain, however, to try and use his tools during the disturbed state of his mind; for every now and then he discovered himself standing motionless with them in his hand, his thoughts being far away. After a wasted half hour, therefore, he threw them down, and, washing his hands and face, left the house to wander away on a lonely ramble along the edge of the sea, and up the ravines of the hills, in order to give unrestrained liberty in his meditations.