“Ah, she was a living Niobe. Never shall I forget her expression when I told her that Drusus had been starved to death--O poor, poor Agrippina!” she exclaims, her eyes filling with tears. “But we are now happy,” she adds after a pause. “My life in our new home is a continuous song of joy.” “Thou art the same happy Psyche.” “Thou art the same brave Gyges.” “Braver than my sweet wife, who has struggled so heroically?” “Without the sustaining hope of thy love, my husband, the dancing-girl would have succumbed under her afflictions. The golden necklace was a great solace. Each stone sparkled with recollections of thee, joined together with golden links of love.” “Thou, sweet wife, wert all in all to me. At Casinum ’twas Psyche who ruled my thoughts. ’Twas Psyche whose name was carried on my prayers. ’Twas thy love that sustained me in my hiding-place. This day, while making the last turn, ’twas the thought of thee that gave me the necessary stimulation to carry me on to glorious victory. Coming from the Circus, I felt as one of the victorious youths must have felt when he left the Olympian Games. The cheers of the people fell upon mine ears like prophetic songs of future victories. When I saw thee at the door of our house, my heart throbbed with supreme joy. O my love, we have reached the summit of our happiness!” At this point their happy reveries are checked by a knock at the door. Lupa quickly answers the call. Alcmaeon and Hera enter. At the sound of her parents’ voices Psyche rushes to meet them. “We have heard the happy news, O Psyche. Hail to thee, victorious son!” exclaims Alcmaeon. “’Twas a glorious day, my father! Come, sit thou in the peristyle! The evening meal is not yet ready. Thou, O mother, may sit with Psyche. We can be two lovers and rest at their feet, my father! Come!” “We are proud of thee, my son!” says Hera. “Again the Greek has conquered. How is the lad Aldo?” “Ah, my mother, he frets under the restraint of his bandages.” “He is sleeping, O Psyche,” whispers Lupa, timidly. “The prize this day, my father, was a large one,” says Gyges to Alcmaeon, as they gather around the stone bench in the peristyle. “When the racing-season is over, we will all go to Corinth.” “A schoolmaster cannot leave his duties.” “Ay; Macro will find another position for thee when thou returnest.” “Ah! shall we all really see the city of our ancestors?” asked Alcmaeon. “Shall we again see Corinth, the eye of Greece, old, ’tis true, but still undimmed in lustre? Breathing the divine air from the sublime heights of Corinth, shall we see the living words of the Iliad? Shall we see the country that stirred the sainted soul of Homer?” “I shall be glad to lose the sight of cruel Rome,” says Hera.