“See,” said he, with a sigh, “there Constantius had his camp, the great Constantius to whom we owe so much.” “And was Constantine himself ever there?” cried the girl, to whom the first Christian Emperor was the object of an admiration which we, knowing as we do more about him, can hardly share. “I doubt it,” returned the Count. “Constantius made it and held it during his campaigns with Allectus. But, my child, I was thinking not of its past, but of its future. It will never be occupied again.” “Why should it?” exclaimed the girl, almost forgetting in her excitement that she was speaking to a Roman. “Why should it? Why should not Britain be happy and safe and free without the legions? Forgive me, father,” she added, remembering herself again; “I am the last person in the world who should be ungrateful to Rome.” “I don’t blame you,” said the Count, and as he looked at the maiden’s flashing eyes and remembered how bravely she had gone through terrors which would have driven most women out of their senses, he thought to himself—“Ah, if there were but a few thousand men who had half the spirit of this woman in them, the end might be different. My child,” he went on, “I would not discourage you, but there are dark days before this island. She has enemies by sea and land, and I doubt whether she has the strength to strike a sufficient blow for herself. I am thankful that you will be safely away before it comes.” Carna was about to speak, but checked herself. It was not the time she felt to speak out her heart.