n now made her
heart throb at the memory of his kiss. He loved her, longed for her,
would have laid down his life for her even at the moment when he tore
himself away from her arms. He loved her and longed for her even whilst
his trembling fingers penned this last impassioned farewell.

He loved her and he loved Rome! But his god called to him and he, the
proud Roman patrician, the accepted lord of the Augusta and of Rome,
followed as would a slave.

Slowly she dropped down on her knees just where he too had knelt two
nights ago, and like unto him she clasped her hands together, scarce
conscious that the tiny wooden cross still lay between her fingers.

"Thou hast conquered, oh Galilean!" she murmured, whilst great sobs that
would not be suppressed rose to her throat. "At thy call he left
everything that makes life beautiful and happy: at thy call he left me
to mourn, he left the people of Rome who acclaimed him, he left the
throne of Augustus and the Empire of the world! Everything he left at
thy call! What hast thou in thy nail-pierced hands to give him in
return?"

For a while now she was able to give way to her immeasurable sorrow. Her
head buried in the pillow whereon his head had rested, she sobbed out
her loving, aching heart in a passionate fit of weeping.

Just like the Christian yesterday up on the heights, so was she--the
pagan--alone now with her grief. More lonely than he--she had no
anchorage, and in her ear had never sounded those all-compelling words,
sublime in their perfect gentleness:

"Come unto Me!"

But who shall tell what divine hand soothed her burning forehead? what
divine words of comfort were whispered in her ear?

Gradually her tears ceased to flow, the heavy sobs were stilled, her
aching and bruised body felt numb with the pain in her heart. But
outwardly she was more calm. She rose from her knees, and hiding the
small cross in the bosom of her gown, she drew forth the letter and read
it through once more.

"If only I knew!" she murmured. "If only I could understand!"

After a while she bethought her of the slave Folces, the one human link
left now between herself and the man whom she loved and who was gone
from her.

With reverent hands she smoothed out the couch, the pillow which had
supported his head, the coverlet which had lain over him. She was loth
to go from this room whose every corner seemed still to hold something
of his personality and whose every wall seemed to hol