‘I admit that one’s faculties are apt to rust amid the sluggish tranquillity of this place,’ replied Afer, with a sigh of charming softness. ‘The whole thing is absurd, but for the extraordinary fact, that the wonderful story is not the production of the gossips themselves. Instead of being born in the village below, it has flowed from the villa above—from headquarters itself.’ As a matter of fact, the details of Plautia’s romantic adventure had spread no further than the reader is already aware of, but the unscrupulous knight knew the power of such a statement, false as it was, and, therefore, made it without hesitation. To have given the rumour on the authority of the simple islanders themselves, was to have rendered it of no weight with her; but to boldly state that it proceeded from the villa, was at once to load her with the maddening suspicion that she had been betrayed. Thus to include the man he hated, by one master‐stroke, was a worthy revenge, and he perpetrated the falsehood with an utter recklessness of discovery. He was prepared to exult over an explosion of wrath, or, better still, to gloat over an exhibition of shame and abasement, which would have left him master of the field, in a triumph to last as long as life. But to have reckoned on any mood of weakness, he perceived, at once, was vain. His quiet words fell on her ears with an unexpectedness that struck her dumb for a few moments. Martialis must have betrayed her—had probably told all to his comrades, as an excellent joke and boast; and for all she knew, she had, perhaps, been the sport and object of secret laughter to every one around. Her pride boiled—her head whirled. Her eyes dilated and her robust frame trembled as if seized with ague. ‘Infamous!’ she cried, at length, in a choking voice. ‘But say you are trifling with me, Afer, and this is the crown of your jest.’ ‘I am not so mad,’ he replied, dwelling with complete satisfaction on the effect of his communication. ‘From whom, then, in the villa, has such a slander sprung?’ ‘That I cannot say.’ ‘I must know.’ ‘Drowning were too good for him.’ ‘Him!’ ‘Him,’ repeated the knight, with a nod. ‘There are no women in the villa who could possibly be the author of such a story. It is certain to be a man. Have you no suspicion?’ He could hear the grate of her teeth as she breathed heavily and rapidly through her nostrils. ‘Suspicion!’ she cried, after some inarticulate sounds. ‘How am I to know? A lie—it is for any one—what is easier? A scullion—Caesar—any one can make a lie! It is another matter to discover it—the coward!’ ‘Who?’ demanded Afer, starting at the fierce intensity of the epithet. ‘The coward—the liar, whoever he may be.’ ‘Humph, that is true; if we could only find him out.’