‘I fancy we have seen something like the turn of these characters before,’ said Afer drily; ‘the varnish is very thinly laid on.’ The epistle was addressed to L. Martialis, Centurion, Villa Jovis. They opened it and read:— ‘One who has braved discomfort and peril desires to see you, Centurion. Close by the path which leads down to the southern landing there is a white rock. I shall await you there at nightfall. As you have a heart do not fail me!’ They looked at each other, and the Prefect broke into a laugh, which was, however, forced and disgusted. The knight smiled inwardly. ‘There!’ uttered Sejanus, ‘I told you I knew not. I am right and you are wrong. It is only thus one can have the chance, sometimes, to fathom what is lowermost in the mind of a woman. She is in love with Martialis! Who would have dreamt of it? A mere Centurion to ensnare the proud goddess!’ ‘It is, at the least, very extraordinary; but it does not follow that she is bitten with this soldier.’ ‘It is so likely that I accept the construction very easily.’ ‘There is one comfort; it may lead to fratricide,’ muttered Afer. ‘What do you say, Afer?’ asked the Prefect. ‘I say it is a bitter pill for the other brother.’ ‘Humph!’ said his patron, too sulky in his wounded self‐conceit to care about anybody else. He clapped his hands for Lygdus, and ordered him to restore the tablets to their former state, in readiness for their owner. ‘Come, we can go now. There is one thing certain, that we must be somewhere in the close vicinity of that same white rock this night.’ CHAPTER VI. We noticed Martialis in the last chapter issuing from the villa Jovis. The sparkle in his eye and the half smile on his lips, as he hummed an air during his rapid walk down to the little southern landing‐place, betokened an errand of an agreeable nature. He rowed himself across to the mainland in a fisherman’s skiff, and, thence, taking the road to Surrentum, was not long ere he stood in the shop of Masthlion, with the joyful and surprised Neæra in his arms. ‘You grow more beautiful each time I see you, Neæra,’ he said, pressing a kiss on her lips. ‘Foolish!’ she murmured, smiling, and sinking her eyes before his fervent gaze. ‘And you, Lucius,’ she added, laying the point of her finger on his toga, ‘you are no Centurion to‐day—you are in plain woollen—you are not for the road?’ ‘I have reached the end of my journey,’ he replied, drawing her nearer. ‘Your breastplate and cloak become you the best, but they mean haste away. This is the most welcome to me, for it is your own dress and——’ ‘And says that, for a time at least, its wearer is his own master, to spend his leisure as he lists,’ said Martialis, finishing her speech and fondling the hand which rested on the bosom of his garment. ‘I have come here, foolish or not, to pass the few hours at my command. Will you offer me no more hospitality than this shop can give?’