a basin full of water in her hands and
a white cloth over her arm. With her wonted loving care she washed Dea's
hands between her own and dried them on the towel. Dea allowed her to
perform this kindly office for her, standing quite still and gazing
absently out into vacancy.

"What can I do now for thee, my precious?" asked Licinia anxiously.

"Nothing, Licinia, nothing," replied Dea with a sigh. "Just leave me in
peace.... I have a desire for solitude and silence."

It was the old woman's turn to sigh now, for she did not like this
unwonted mood of her beloved. Dea Flavia, when in the privacy of her own
house, was always gay and cheerful as a bird, prattling of all sorts of
things, telling amusing anecdotes to her old nurse and playing
light-heartedly with her young slaves, whenever she was not occupied
with her artistic work. This frown upon the smooth, white brow was very
unusual, and the fretful, impatient gestures were as unwonted as was
that dreamy, absent gaze which spoke of anxious, troubled thoughts.

Dea Flavia herself could not understand her own mood. She could not have
confided in the faithful old woman, even had she been so minded, for
truly she would not have known what to confide.

Her thoughts worried her. They were so insistent, dwelling obstinately
on one moment which had flitted by yesterday--the moment when she stood
facing the praefect of Rome, and looking into his deep, dark eyes, which
then and there had reminded her of a stormy sea suddenly lulled to rest.
It seemed as if nothing now or ever hereafter would chase from her mind
the memory of his look and of his rugged voice, softened to infinite
gentleness as he said: "I told thee that He died upon the Cross."

She could hear that voice now, even as at this moment from afar a
muffled sound of thunder went echoing over the hills, and, strive as she
might, wherever she looked her eyes were haunted by the vision which he
had conjured up of a man with arms outstretched upon a cross, whose
might was yet greater than that of Rome.

At the time she had been greatly angered. The praefect had spoken
traitorous words, and she had hated him--she hated him still--for that
allegiance which he seemed to have given to another. Then, with a quick,
elusive trick, memory showed her the massive shoulders bent humbly at
her feet, tying the strings of her shoe--a simple homage due to the
daughter of Caesar--and the sharp pang of wrath once more shot through