been different. As it is, you can only
stare at me, and say to yourself, 'How strange a sensible fellow like
Drusus should care for a girl from whom he has been parted for nearly
two years!' That's why I doubt if your sympathy can be of any great
solace to me."

"Well," said Antonius, washing down his _puls_ with a draught of water
from a second helmet at hand, "I can't say that I would be full of
grief two years from the day my beloved Fulvia was taken from me. But
there are women of many a sort. Some are vipers to sting your breast,
some are playthings, some are--what shall I call them--goddesses? no,
one may not kiss Juno; flowers? they fade too early; silver and gold?
that is rubbish. I have no name for them. But believe me, Quintus, I
have met this Cornelia of yours once or twice, and I believe that she
is one of those women for whom my words grow weak."

"Then you can sympathize, can feel, for me," said Drusus, as he lay
back with his head on the dark green sward.

"Yes, as a poor man who has always possessed nothing can feel for a
rich merchant whose whole fortune is about to founder at sea. Do not
spurn my feeble sort of pity. But do you know nothing of her, not a
word, a sign? Is she alive or dead? Much less, does she still care for
you?"

"Nothing!" answered Drusus, and the sense of vexation and helplessness
choked his utterance. "She vanished out of sight at Baiae, as a flash
of lightning passes away in the sky. I cannot imagine the cause of her
disappearance. The pirates, indeed, might have wished to take her for
ransom; but no, they bore her off with never a demand for money from
any friend or relative. I have tried to trace them--the Pompeian ships
on every sea make it impossible. I have questioned many prisoners and
spies; she is not at the Pompeian camp with her uncle. Neither can I
discover that her kinsmen among the enemy themselves know where she
is. And to this is added that other mystery: whither has my Aunt Fabia
vanished? How much of the account of those who followed her to the
river dock is to be believed--that pirates saved her from Gabinius,
and then abducted her? Upon all, my clever freedman Agias is
gone--gone without ever a word, though I counted him faithful as my
own soul!"

"And what then do you expect?" asked Antonius, not without friendly
interest.

"What can a man, who dares to look the situation in the face, expect,
except something too horrible to utter?" and Drusus groaned