‘Potter, you are right,’ continued the Prefect. ‘Men and women, to be prudent, should not marry out of their station. Your daughter must be a paragon of loveliness, or cleverness, or goodness, to have ensnared my Centurion.’ ‘She is such as she is, Prefect, and ensnares no one,’ returned Masthlion, with a frown of his shaggy eyebrows. ‘Whichever way it be, if they have fallen in love with each other you may as well leave them to it, for you will be hard put to rule them,’ laughed the commander. ‘When a woman is truly in love she parts with what little forethought she had, and leaves her senses to find themselves in cooler days. As for Martialis, I can only tell thee, potter, he is not the man to change his mind lightly, or take away his hand when he has once set his grip.’ ‘I am sore beset,’ said Masthlion sadly; ‘in Surrentum I could know nothing; here in Rome I thought I might learn something.’ ‘The performance of the Centurion’s duties is what concerns me; beyond that lies not within my province,’ replied Sejanus. ‘And yet it would be hard not to know something more,’ sighed the potter. ‘To conclude, you may go back to Surrentum with an easy mind as far as I know to the contrary,’ said the Prefect, with signs of impatience. ‘This seems to be a piece of lovers’ folly on the part of the Centurion. If he is fool enough to marry your daughter, she may think herself lucky in her elevation. Many a man in his position, of gentle blood, would have proceeded differently. ’Tis pity none of his family remains to dissuade him from grafting such a poor scion on to their ancient stem.’ ‘I care nothing for that—I seek my daughter’s happiness, not her position,’ replied the potter proudly. ‘Good! Then I know nothing more. Is the Centurion an acquaintance of yours, Titus?’ cried Sejanus, turning to the knight. ‘No, I have not the honour,’ answered Afer. ‘Then, potter, you may take that as a strong assurance in his favour,’ added the Prefect satirically. ‘You are in the best of spirits,’ remarked Afer, showing his white teeth. ‘Now, potter, you can go,’ said Sejanus; ‘you have all I can give you—stay, how is your daughter named?’ ‘Neæra!’ replied Masthlion. ‘Then your girl Neæra will probably have her own way in the end in despite of you. But deprive me not of my Centurion between ye, or you shall lose my favour, I promise you. He is worth more to me than all the maids, wives, widows, and hags in Campania, honest or not—wait!’ He clapped his hands, and the same slave attended as before—a dark‐skinned Nubian. ‘Lygdus, is there not an old family friend of the Centurion Martialis, whom he visits on the Aventine?’ ‘Mamercus—near the temple of Diana,’ replied the slave laconically. ‘Go thither, potter,—Mamercus will serve your turn better than I,’ said the Prefect, waving his hand and turning his back. Masthlion followed the Nubian out of the apartment with a brighter countenance, and was quickly on his way to the Aventine.