g Roman.

"Well, people don't die from making wills, or I should have left the
living long ago. A Roman citizen sets his house in order for every
emergency, death included. So, though Herculanus according to the law
would now be my sole heir, I made my will before the magistrate in
Burdigala before joining the army, formally naming him my heir: a few
little legacies and the liberation of some faithful slaves still
remain. To you, Saturninus," he added, laughing, "I shall bequeath
after my return, in a codicil, a valuable memento of this evening."

"Well?"

"A copy of the 'Mosella'; but the verses about the fish are to be cut
out by way of punishment."

He quaffed his wine, pleased with his own jest.

CHAPTER XI.

"You must and will survive me, my noble friend! The Tribune will soon
lie where he belongs: on his shield. But you still belong to Burdigala,
in your tasteful house filled with rare works of art (what hospitality
I enjoyed there the last time I was wounded!), or to Rome, in the
Senate; not here, in the marshy forests of these Alemanni. Why (you
always liked to accompany the Emperor to Vindonissa)--why did you, a
man of peace and of leisure, join this military campaign? It has no
attraction for you! What have you to obtain on the Barbarian shores of
this lake?"

"I? I am seeking for something here," replied Ausonius, after some
little hesitation.

"Laurels of Mars to add to those of Apollo?"

"Not at all; only--a memory!"

Herculanus cast a sharp glance full of meaning at his uncle.

"Or, if you prefer it, a dream, the fulfilment of a dream. I believe in
dreams."

"Of course," said the Tribune, smiling, "like all poets! I care more
for waking thoughts."

"When I reached the army over yonder in Vindonissa, a lovely charming
memory of a child rose vividly before me; a child equally bewitching in
mind and person, whom I knew and loved here several years ago."

"A boy?"

"No, a girl."

"Ho, ho, pedagogue of the Emperor!" cried the Tribune, laughing.

Herculanus did not enter into the jest; he was silently watching
Ausonius's every look.

"Oh, calm yourself! Bissula is a girl about twelve years old--that
is--she was in those days. She and a Sarmatian boy brought to Arbor
every week the fish her uncle had caught on the northern shore of the
lake. And how delightfully she talked! Even her Barbarian Latin sounded
sweetly from her cherry-red lips. We became the b