open tent. That
is always unsafe and requires the constant presence of trustworthy men,
whom we cannot spare. Rignomer, you will lock them in--both feet--apart
from each other. Your life will answer for it if they escape on the
way."

"They shall not," growled the Batavian, who had been inexpressibly
enraged by the fling at his love for Bissula, though he did not know
why. "Forward!"

Led by Rignomer, the four guards and Prosper thrust the prisoners out
of the tent.

CHAPTER XLIV.

The curtains had scarcely dropped behind them when Ausonius exclaimed:
"He must not die! My Melania's son! He must fly into exile!"

"The Emperor will decide. But you, friend Ausonius, praise Heaven,
which sent you this child. You owe your life solely to her."

The Prefect drew the young girl to the couch by his side and kissed her
hands and brow. She submitted, for she was weeping. He would fain have
kissed her lips too, but he forebore. The usually defiant creature was
so childlike, so helpless from sheer emotion over his escape. So he
only stroked her beautiful head with his hand and said, deeply moved
himself: "The Christians have a superstition which I have often
derided, of a guardian angel which God gives to mortals. I shall never
do so again. You, Bissula, are my guardian angel!"

"But angels ought not to be slaves," remarked the Illyrian with a smile
which well became his manly face. "I give you this child, Ausonius; she
is your slave now. Do with her as you choose."

"I set her free, this moment. Bissula, you are free!"

"Oh, thanks, thanks, thanks!" cried the young girl exultantly,
springing from the couch. "Now away,--away at once to my people,--to my
grandmother,--to--"

"Not so fast, little one," interposed Saturninus. "Even the faithful,
grateful freedwoman (the legal form of the act is still lacking) must
obey the will of the patronus. I doubt whether he will let you fly
away, you lovely little wild bird."

Bissula fixed her wonderful eyes beseechingly, imploringly, upon
Ausonius, but the latter did not see it; he was gazing, rigid with
amazement, at the Tribune.

"My friend--I don't understand you. Why do you so suddenly--I almost
thought that you yourself--"

"Let us spare the child. I will say only this much; she can hear it
without flushing too deeply, and sudden blushes are so becoming to
her! A man need not be a poet, my Ausonius, to find our--pardon me,
your--little ma