Some years before this time, Casca had married the daughter of a Greek merchant, a beautiful gentle girl, who though less of a companion to her learned husband than a joy for her beauty and goodness, was most dear to him. After some years of waiting a little daughter was given to them, and from the moment of her birth the mother drooped and faded before Casca’s eyes. Old Ezra’s death happened about this time, and Anna, the Saxon Ebba, returned to serve Casca, and to take charge of his motherless child. The Greek name of Hyacintha, which had been given to Casca’s sister, was now passed on to his little daughter, and the name was as a sound of music in Anna’s ears. The dreaming over the past in which Casca indulged that morning was broken in upon by the sound of footsteps, and one of his servants drew aside the curtain from the doorway, and admitted a tall soldier-like man with grizzled beard, and a face bronzed with exposure, who advanced towards him with outstretched hands, pronouncing his name-- “Casca!” “Claudius, is it possible!” was the almost instant reply, and then the two men looked at each other with that curious inquiring gaze with which we scan the features of those whom we have known in youth, and meet in later years. Time had dealt very gently with the scholar and philosopher. Casca’s high brow, from which the hair had retreated, was smooth and but gently marked by lines. His hands, which had wielded the pen to so much purpose, were white and slender, and his robe fell around him in graceful folds. As he and Claudius stood, with their right hands clasped together and their left resting on each other’s shoulders, they made a fine contrasted picture of the scholar and the soldier. Claudius was tall and stalwart, his skin bronzed with exposure to the sun, several scars of sabre cuts on his brow and cheek, and many deep wrinkles on his brow, still shadowed by thick masses of tawny hair which, like his beard, were lined with silver. “Yes,” Claudius said, “we meet after many years.” “Do you come from Rome?” Casca asked, “or from Verulam?” “From Rome,” and Claudius sighed. “From Rome, and I bear you tidings of your sister, now the Vestal Maxima.” “Hyacintha!” exclaimed Casca, “she is always dear to my heart, but her life is on the mountain top, and we poor folk are on a lower level.” Claudius shook his head. “The mountain top is but a barren waste to her, I fear. She has much trouble, and her elevation is dearly bought.” “Sit down and tell me all,” Casca said. “Ah! good Claudius, it is like a draught of new wine to see you. Strange that when you entered I was going over the past--the little chamber at Verulam, Hyacintha sitting by my side, and your loud ringing voice bidding me meet life as a man, and not as a coward. Brave advice, whether for the scholar or soldier, eh, good Claudius?”