d I am a man thirsting for
happiness. But God, who hath need of my soul, hath willed to break my
heart so that I might remain pure and true to His service. It was so
filled with thine image that even the glorious vision of His Passion
became faint and dim. But with infinite pity He hath given thee to me
just for this one brief, glorious hour that it might feed on the memory
of thee, even whilst my feet trod the way that leads to the foot of His
Cross."

"There is but one way, dear lord," she exclaimed, "for thy footsteps to
tread! Tis the way that leads to mine arms first and thence upwards to
the temple of Jupiter Victor where stands the throne and rests the
sceptre of Augustus."

"The way of which I speak, dear heart," he rejoined earnestly, "also
leads upwards, upwards to Calvary, on the uttermost summit of which
stands a lonely, broken Cross. The wind and rains and snows of the past
seven years have worked their will with it.... They tell me that one of
its branches lies broken on the ground, that its stem is split from end
to end. But it is there--there still, abandoned now and alone, but to
eyes that can see, still bearing the imprint of the heavenly body that
hung thereon for three hours in unspeakable agony so that men might know
how to live--and might learn how to die."

She said nothing for the moment. Her excitement had not left her, but
her lips were mute because that which was in her heart was too great,
too strange for words. She did not understand what he meant; she still
thought that fever had clouded his brain; anon, she felt sure, sane
reason would return and with it ambition, which became every man. But
she did not understand that his love for her transcended all human love
she ever wot of; it was great and noble and sublime as all that emanated
from him, and, womanlike, she was content to let other matters shape
themselves in accordance with the will of the gods.

She looked into the face which in this brief period of time she had
learnt to love, and tried to read that which to her was still hidden
behind the earnest brow and the deep-set eyes. In them, indeed, did she
read exultation, an ardour at least equal to her own, but an ardour for
an object which she--the proud, exquisite pagan, the daughter of
Augustus--wholly failed to comprehend. She had shown him the way to the
imperium, to the diadem of Augustus, the sceptre of the Caesars, yet in
his eyes, which were unfathomable and blue as the oc