her eyes yet fixed on the distant road. He had arrived just in time to witness the disappearance of Martialis, the Centurion. He whom he had expected and watched for with such restless anxiety, and to whom he had mentally arranged to consign his letter for the safest delivery to its destination. His extreme disgust and disappointment found its customary relief in a furious spasm of frightful language, all the fiercer in that he was obliged to suppress it, because of neighbours sprinkled here and there nigh at hand in their little plots of garden ground. When he looked again for Neæra she had disappeared. He followed into the house with a visage dark and sullen as a thundercloud. The first to meet him was Neæra herself; a strange contrast, inasmuch as joy sparkled in her eyes and bloomed on her cheeks. It was testimony enough to the glance of Cestus. ‘Hath not the Centurion been here but now?’ he asked, gloomily enough. ‘Yes!’ replied Neæra, with yet more colour in her cheeks. ‘What is the matter?’ ‘Matter enough,’ was the sulky answer; ‘I have been dying to see him and to have speech with him. I was even on the road this morning, thinking that he might pass by chance, and if I had not gone into the town I should have caught him. He must have followed me almost on my heels. Curse my luck, why did I not come straight home?’ ‘You were unlucky indeed, uncle; but he will not be away more than a few days.’ ‘Even that may prove too long,’ growled Cestus. ‘Said he anything about affairs in the island that you can remember, Neæra? That the Prefect was intending to return to the city before long?’ ‘No, nothing. But had it been so, Lucius would scarce have been returning to Capreae again.’ ‘Humph!’ grunted Cestus, as Neæra glided away about her business, well satisfied with the existing arrangements of the Centurion’s commander.