He bent closer till his breath played on her hair. ‘Neæra,’ he said, ‘you have been kinder and called me Lucius ere now. Enough of this madness—this folly of saws and maxims! Misdoubting girl, I love you for what you are, and above all on this earth. To thrust me away were to wreck me wholly; and you would not though you possess the power. For I have gathered it from your lips, your eyes, your sweet face, that you have some measure of love for me in return. Is it not so? Speak, Neæra!’ She trembled violently, and, yielding to an irresistible impulse, he threw his arms around her and pressed a fervent kiss upon her cheek. She freed herself with a desperate exertion, and stood off, panting and shaking in extreme emotion, with her cheeks aflame. ‘Neæra!’ he ejaculated, advancing to her again. ‘No, no! Leave me—go and forget me, if you would be merciful and kind!—oh, you are cruel! Alas, can I ever look in my father’s face again!’ The sound of a footstep in the passage leading to the interior broke upon their ears. She cast one swift look of lofty reproach, mingled with sorrow, upon the young man, and then drooped her head upon her breast. A short, thick‐set man presented himself in the shop. His hands, his coarse garments, and even his face, were stained with the grime of the furnace and the smearings of clay; but through these outward tokens of the common artisan shone the unmistakable signs of superior intellect, in the brilliancy of his eyes, deep set under thick brows, and in a massive forehead, which was very broad and full at the base. His hand, which he raised with a gesture of surprise, as his gaze rested on the young couple, was of the shape usually supposed to be peculiar to the gifted artist and mechanic, being long, square‐tipped, and sinewy, with an immense flexibility and power of thumb. Reading the tell‐tale faces of the pair with a rapid glance, his countenance instantly assumed a grave sternness, unlike the preoccupied expression which previously rested upon it. ‘What—Centurion! Martialis!’ he said, coldly, and even with an amount of haughtiness which might, ordinarily, have been deemed incommensurate with the relative stations of himself and his visitor. Although his tone was quiet and free from anger or emotion of any kind, there was an unusual quality in it which seemed to strike the girl not the less acutely, for she hid her pale face in her hands. ‘Yes, Masthlion, even I!’ returned the Pretorian, stepping forward and offering his hand. Masthlion met the open, frank gaze of the young officer for a moment; then, as if not noticing the proffered greeting, he dropped his eyes to the floor and remained for a few seconds in deep thought. Then raising his head he said—