considerably whilst he spoke, and those who
were watching him so anxiously saw the ugly dark frown gradually lighten
on his brow. No wonder! since he was just a man face to face with an
exceptionally beautiful woman, to whose pity he was endeavouring to make
appeal. At all times an easy and a pleasant task, it must have been
doubly so now when the object of mercy was so deserving. Taurus Antinor
looked straight into the lovely face before him, marvelling when those
exquisite blue eyes would soften with their first look of pity. But they
remained serene and mysterious, neither avoiding his gaze nor responding
to its appeal. The delicately chiselled lips retained their slight curve
of scorn.

He gave a sign to Menecreta, and she approached, tottering like one who
is drunken with wine, or who has received a heavy blow on the head. She
stood before Dea Flavia, with head trembling like poplar leaves and
great hollow eyes fixed in meaningless vacancy upon the great patrician
lady.

"This is Menecreta, O Dea Flavia," concluded the praefect; "wilt allow
her to plead her own cause?"

Without replying directly to him, Dea Flavia turned for the first time
to the slave-girl on the platform.

"Is this thy mother?" she asked.

"Yes!" murmured the girl.

"Hast a wish that she should buy thy freedom?"

"Yes."

"That thou shouldst go with her to the hovel which is her home, the only
home that thou wouldst ever know? Hast a wish to become the slave of
that old woman, whose mind hath already gone wandering among the
shadows, and whose body will very shortly go in search of her mind? Hast
a wish to spend the rest of thy days scrubbing floors and stewing onions
in an iron pot? Or is thy wish to dwell in the marble halls of Dea
Flavia's house, where the air is filled with the perfume of roses and
violets and tame songbirds make their nests in the oleander bushes?
Wouldst like to recline on soft downy cushions, allowing thy golden hair
to fall over thy shoulders the while I, mallet or chisel in hand, would
make thy face immortal by carving it in marble? The praefect saith thine
is a case for pity, then do I have pity upon thee, and give thee the
choice of what thy life shall be. Squalor and misery as thy mother's
slave, or joy, music, and flowers as mine."

Her voice, ever low and musical, had taken on notes of tenderness and of
languor. The tears of pity which the praefect had vainly tried to
conjure up gathered now in her eyes a