“And this is our country! This is Rome! The Emperor, forsooth, has need of all his friends. His friends indeed! I little thought that the day would come when I should feel ashamed of the title. But tell me, daughter; what shall we do? Shall we go?” “What else can we do?” asked the girl. “I have thought much about the matter since I heard the dreadful news of Stilicho’s death, and have had all kinds of wild schemes in my head. I have felt that I could not go back and touch in friendship the hands that murdered him. Sometimes I thought, while Cedric was here, that we would take him with us, and sail eastward. I have had many a hard fight with these Saxons, but at least they are men, and brave men, too, who are true to their friends, if they hate their enemies. But that is now at an end. But is there no other way to go? What say you, Claudian—have you any counsel to give us?” “I would not advise you to sail eastward,” said the poet. “We know pretty well what lies that way; tribes of barbarians, of whom the less we see the better, with all respect to your friend Cedric, who seems to have been a fine fellow. But why not westward? You will laugh at me for believing in the Islands of the Blest. Well, I do not mean to say that there is a country where Achilles and the rest of the heroes are living in immortal joy and peace. If there is, it is not one which any ship, built by the art of man, can reach. But I do believe that there is a country. These old tales, depend upon it, have something more in them than mere fancy. Why, my lord, should not you be the one to find it?” “Yes, let us go, dear father,” said Ælia, “and leave this dreadful world with all its troubles and quarrels behind us. Don’t you think so, Carna?” Carna only smiled sadly. “Or,” continued the poet, “there is the land beyond the north, the country of the blessed Hyperboreans, that old Herodotus talks about. Why should we not go there? Or, if that sounds too wild, there is Africa, with regions rich and fertile beyond all doubt that are waiting to be explored. These at least are no matter of legend. We know where they are. Let us search for them. Whatever world we may find, it can hardly be worse than that which we are leaving behind.” “And what says Carna?” said the Count, turning, with an affectionate look, to his adopted daughter. The girl thus appealed to flushed painfully. For a moment she seemed about to speak, but not a syllable passed her lips. “Speak,” cried the Count; “you always see clearer and farther than the rest of us.” “My father,” the girl went on, “I will speak from my heart, as I know you always wish me to do. Forgive me if I seem to teach when it is my part to learn and to obey. But, if you ask what I think you should do, I say, ‘Go home to Rome or Ravenna, or wherever else the Emperor bids you.’ After all, it is your country, and it never needed the help of good and brave men more than it does now.”