A fifth person, who had hitherto taken no part in the conversation, and whose presence in the room had been almost forgotten by every one, now broke in, with a voice which startled the hearers by its unusual clearness and precision. Lena, mother of the centurion’s wife, had nearly completed her eightieth year. Commonly, she sat in the chimney corner, unheeding, to all appearances, of the life that went on about her, and dozing away the day. In her prime, and even down to old age, she had been a woman of remarkable activity, ruling her daughter’s household as despotically as in former days she had ruled her own. Then a sudden and severe illness had prostrated her, and she had seemed to shrink at once into feebleness and helplessness of mind and body. Her daughter and granddaughters tended her carefully and lovingly; but she seemed scarcely to take any notice of them. The only thing that ever seemed to rouse her attention was the sight of her son-in-law when he chanced to enter the chamber without disarming. The shine of the steel brought a fire again into her dim, sunken eyes. It was probably this that had now roused her; and her attention, once awakened, had been kept alive by what she heard. “And at whose bidding are you going?” she said, in a startlingly clear voice to come from one so feeble; “this Honorius, as he calls himself, a feeble creature who has never drawn a sword in his life! Now, if it had been his father! He was a man to obey. He did deserve to be called Emperor. I saw him forty years ago—just after you were born, daughter—when he came with his father. A splendid young fellow he was; and one who would have his own way, too! How he gave those turbulent Greeks at Thessalonica their deserts! Fifteen thousand of them!(29) That was an Emperor worth having!” “Oh! mother,” cried her daughter, horrified to see the old woman’s ferocity, softened, she had hoped, by age and infirmity, roused again in all its old strength. “Oh! mother, don’t say such dreadful things. That was an awful crime in Theodosius, and he had to do penance for it in the church.” “Ay,” muttered the old woman, “I can fancy it did not please the priests. But why,” she went on, raising her voice again, “why does not Britain have an Emperor of her own?” “So she has, mother,” said the centurion. “You forget our Lord Constantine.” “Our Lord Constantine!” she repeated. “Who is Constantine? Why, I remember his mother—a slave girl—whom the Irish pirates carried off from somewhere in the North. Constantine’s father bought her, and married her. Why should he be Emperor? I could make as good a one any day out of a faggot stick.” “Peace, dear mother,” said the centurion, soothingly, afraid that her words might have other listeners. “Why not you,” went on the old woman, unheeding; “you are better born.” “I, Emperor!” cried the centurion. “Speak good words, dearest mother.”