‘Yes, it is quite certain that the Centurion has been more highly entertained than ourselves,’ responded Afer drily; ‘but unbidden guests must take their chance. In the meantime, let us fix such scraps of speech, as did reach our ears, firmly in our memories, and exercise our ingenious fancies in supplying matter to fill the vast gaps in the scene. It will be just as amusing as the original, and the lovely Plautia will correct it if necessary.’ ‘I’m agreeable, if you will undertake to obtain the correction yourself from the damsel,’ snarled the Prefect, brushing his cloak with his hand. ‘I think the result would repay any such trouble.’ ‘At least you have proof of the sublime virtue of your Pretorian,’ continued Afer; ‘that must be gratifying. Such a marvel of resolute integrity could fearlessly brave a host of Sirens, without stuffing his ears with wax as did Ulysses. Ill‐starred Venus dashing herself against this incorruptible Adonis!’ ‘Now the better time, therefore, for you to persuade her to turn to warmer sympathies for consolation,’ remarked Sejanus sarcastically. ‘The Centurion has followed his own idea in a matter which will never offer itself to your choice, and it is of no further consequence to you or to me either. But as to the lady herself, she must go to‐morrow night, and you must contrive to acquaint her with that fact early in the morning. I will arrange about the means of departure. If she fails to obey and keep within‐doors till she is bidden to come forth, she does it to her grievous peril. Give my cloak a brush with your hand, Afer, and let us be off.’ CHAPTER XI. Plautia walked homeward with a sweeping haughty step, leaving her head and face exposed to the dim rays of the moon as if contemptuously careless of risk. When she reached the middle of the dusky orchard which flanked the dwelling of Tucca, she stopped short, with her head cast down, as if struck by a sudden thought. It may have been a cruelly acute flash of reflection piercing her pain‐drowsied mind with spasmodic rigour, for, the next moment she sank on her knees with a smothered groan, and thence on to her face, with her arms outstretched and her hand clutching the turf. Here, in the solitude and silence of the night, the most dread hour for unhappy thoughts, she lay prone and helpless in the very lap of mental torture. Every external condition was absent which, in the light of day, might have lent distraction and relief. Her face, buried in the mossy turf, was dry‐eyed; nor could the stinging pangs of wounded pride arouse a momentary diversion from the horrible oppression and stupor of despair by a fit of frenzied rage, to which her inflammable nature was at all times prone.