the Caesar?"

"He hath fled like a coward. Let him be forgotten even whilst the people
proclaim thee the Caesar and a new era of happiness doth rise over Rome."

Then as he made no reply she continued more hurriedly, more insistently:

"There are those here in my house now who would be the first to acclaim
thee as the Caesar. The praetorian guard, fired by thy valour yesterday,
sickened by the cowardice of Caligula, is ready to follow in their wake,
whilst mine will be the joy of calling unto the whole city of Rome:
'Citizens, behold your Caesar! He is here!'"

She would not tell him that the imperium should come to him only through
her hands; a strange reticence seemed to choke these words in her
throat. Anon he would know. Caius Nepos and the others would tell him,
but it was so sweet to give so much and--as the giver--to remain
unknown.

She made a quick movement now, half withdrawing her hand from his arm,
but his firm grasp closed swiftly over it.

"No, no," he said, "take not thy touch from off my soul lest I sink into
an abyss of degradation."

He kept her slender fingers rivetted against his arm, and she looked up
at him a little frightened, for his words sounded strange and there was
a wild look in his eyes. She remembered suddenly that he was sick and
that a brief while ago fever had fired his brain. All her womanly
tenderness surged up at sight of his drawn face.

"Thou art ill!" she said gently.

He fell on his knees, and still holding her hand he rested his forehead
against the cool white fingers.

"I am dying," he said softly, "for love of thee."

There was silence in the room now whilst she stood quite still, like a
grey bird in its nest. She was looking down on him and his head was
bowed upon her hands.

A weird, ruddy light penetrated into the studio from above and the sound
of the pattering rain awoke a soft, murmuring echo on the white walls.
The noise of strife and rebellion, though distant, still filled the air
around, but here, in this room, there was infinite quietude and peace.

Dea Flavia felt supremely happy. Love had come to her in its most
exquisite plenitude; the man whom she honoured, loved her and she loved
him. It seemed as if she had slept for thousands and thousands of years
and had just woke up to see how beautiful was the world.

"Love is not death," she murmured gently. "It is life."

"Death to me," he whispered, "for I have seen thy beauty and felt thee
near unto m