‘But that has passed,’ she said, in a low voice, and inclining herself again closely to him. ‘Though surprised, Lucius, why unbelieving? Can it be so beyond belief? Had you been hideous, deformed, and as vile in mind as person,—a base negro, or Numidian slave, it had been then time to wonder! But thank the gods for being what you are—then why do you so undervalue yourself? Have women the eyes of bats and hearts impenetrable as granite? Have I not said enough? Would you have me plead? No—you cannot!’ ‘What of my brother Caius?’ said he, with a sterner accent in his voice. ‘What of him—why, what of him?’ ‘He loves you—nay, more, he is infatuated with you. It is public knowledge.’ ‘And am I to blame? Can you reproach me? I have never wished it nor desired it. I have scorned him. I would have driven him away from me, but he would not be driven. Can I help his misfortune? It is impossible. It must be a task for himself. I can never love him, nor can he demand it, nor any force compel me.’ ‘You say true. If it be his own misfortune to love without return there is no law or force to help him. The same law, Plautia, stands good between all. Poor Caius! there are more than himself in the same unhappy plight.’ The Centurion gently withdrew his hand from beneath hers, and, turning half aside toward the sea, folded his arms across his breast. Her hands fell down before her, and her eyes contracted on his profile. The deep gravity of his manner alarmed her and grated ominously on her mind. ‘But you are in no such wretchedness?’ she said, with painful earnestness. ‘I—no! the gods be thanked, far from it,’ he replied quickly, almost lightly and gladly. ‘Then why speak so meaningly? Such a common truth hardly needed it.’ He did not respond, but remained stolidly gazing over the cliffs upon the sea. ‘Will you not speak?’ she said, after a pause. He turned upon her and took her hand. ‘Plautia, I would you had never come to this spot. It had been better if you had never left home. Return at once. Let me see you safely away, this night if possible.’ Her face grew as ghastly white as the limestone rock bathed in the moonlight, and a deadly sickness seized upon her heart and numbed her faculties for a moment. ‘You wish to be quit of me—you spurn me!’ she cried, catching her breath. ‘I wish to seek your safety and—and, Plautia, it is impossible that I can love you,’ returned he, wringing the tardy words out of his heart. She caught her hand away and struck it against her breast, and reared her form aloft in a moment’s ominous silence. ‘I have demeaned myself, then,’ she gasped, ‘to a man without a heart. I have stooped myself, most likely, to be the butt of a guard‐room, and thence of the city—O miserable, weak, blinded fool!’