“Ah, ’tis poor comfort to see only his tunic,” she said, as she kissed it. “But look!” she quickly added, “here is some writing! Come to the light and read the words.” When they reached the small courtyard, she read: “Have done wrong. Read a letter from L to S about Lygdus.” “Come, you must go!” roughly commanded the soldier, opening the door. Gyges received permission to accompany Psyche, and the sorrowful lovers left the house. The walk to the camp was a painfully sad one. They both recalled their happy afternoon in their future home. Fresh tears gushed from Psyche’s eyes when they passed the street on which the house stood. As they went along, Gyges, who had been trying to unravel the mystery of Gannon’s message, suddenly whispered to Psyche, “Oh that we had not seen that writing!” “Why, what harm can those words do? They were the last we shall ever hear from him,” whispered Psyche through her sobs. “Nay, my love; I fear they are dangerous.” Then he added apprehensively, “I know Lygdus.” “But I do not understand thee.” “Speak not so loud, O Psyche, the soldiers may hear us. Thy dear brother wrote, ‘Have done wrong.’ I fear he had learned some terrible secret, and that we, in reading these words, have gained a clue to that secret. Oh that we had not seen that writing!” he repeated. “There can be no harm in knowing about Lygdus.” “Ay, my love, there is harm,” he insisted. “Never acknowledge having read that message. If thou art asked about it in the camp, deny all knowledge concerning it. Promise me this, O my love.” “I promise thee, O my Gyges.” At the Praetorian Camp Gyges repeated this warning, and then the lovers parted. Feeling assured that she would see Gyges the next day, Psyche said farewell with no great misgivings. Oppressed with anguish at the terrible death of Gannon, but as yet unconscious of the approach of new misfortune, she was led into the office of Sejanus. The minister had just returned from his visit to the palace on the Palatine Hill. A dim light revealed him seated on a curule chair surrounded by a few soldiers, to whom he was issuing orders. When Psyche was announced, he dismissed his attendants. When they were left alone, he said, “Truly, art thou the dancing-girl?” “Ay, my lord Sejanus,” said Psyche, in a plaintive tone. “Art thou Gannon’s sister?” “Ay; and--” “Thou wast not at home when thy parents were brought here?” Sejanus roughly interrupted her. “Nay, my lord Sejanus.” “Where wert thou?” “With Gyges, walking upon the Via Appia.” “Who is Gyges?” “A charioteer--” “Ah! I remember. He wears the green color. I know him. Is he a relative?” “He is my lover,” she shyly responded. “True. All dancing-girls have their lovers,” he sneered. “But didst thou return home?” “Ay,” answered Psyche, drawing herself up with dignity. “Whom didst thou see at home?” “No one.” “There was a tunic there. Didst thou see it?” “Ay, my lord Sejanus.” “Thou didst have it in thy hands?” “Ay.”