ch I, thy
mother, have earned for thee, or the golden cage in which this proud
lady would deign to keep her latest whim in bondage!"

Her voice, which at first had been almost steady, died down at the end
in a pitiful quiver. It was the last agony of her hopes, the real
parting from her child, for even whilst Menecreta's throat was choked
with sobs, Nola hung her head and great heavy tears dropped from her
eyes upon her clasped hands. The child was crying and the mother
understood.

She no longer moaned with pain now. The pain was gone; only dull despair
remained. Her heart had hungered for the one glad cry of joy: "Mother,
I'll come to thee!" It was left starving even through her daughter's
tears.

But those who watched this unwonted scene could not guess what Dea
Flavia felt, for her eyes were veiled by her long lashes, and the mouth
expressed neither triumph nor pity. Menecreta now once more tried to
steady her quivering voice; she straightened her weary back and said
quite calmly:

"My lady's grace has spoken, and the great lords here assembled have
uttered words of praise for an exquisite act of pity. My lady's grace
hath spoken and hath told the poor slave, Nola, to choose her own life.
But I, the humble freedwoman, will speak in my turn to thee, O Dea
Flavia of the imperial house of immortal Caesar, and looking into thine
eyes I tell thee that thy pity is but falsehood and thine eloquence
naught but cruelty. By thy words thou didst take my child from me as
effectually as if thou already hadst bought and paid for her. Look at
the child now! She hangs her head and dares not look on me, her mother.
Oh! thou didst well choose thy words, oh daughter of imperial Caesar, for
thy honeyed words were like the nectar which hid the poison that hath
filtrated into my daughter's heart. Thou hast said it right--her life
with me had been one of toil and mayhap of misery, but she would have
been content, for she had never dreamed of another life. But now she has
heard thee speak of marble halls, of music and of flowers, of a life of
ease and of vanity, and never again would that child be happy in her
mother's arms. Be content, O Augusta! the girl is thine since thy
caprice hath willed it so. Even though she chose her mother now, I would
not have her, for I know that she would be unhappy in that lonely hut on
the Aventine; and though I have seen much sorrow and endured much
misery, there is none greater to bear than the sight