ng at certain spaces small stones
carried in bags by the pioneers who accompanied and watched him.
The Prefect of Gaul soon reached the path trodden by Adalo a few
days before, which led to Suomar's lonely forest dwelling. With a
throbbing heart he recognized the familiar spot: the little hill, the
broad-branched oak, the neighboring spring: nothing had changed in the
few years, except that another piece of tilled land had been wrested by
fire from the primeval forest.

At the fence which inclosed the court-yard he sprang from his horse; he
had ordered his escort to halt at the oak-tree. The blood suffused his
face, so intense was his anxiety. The narrow gate in the palisade stood
ajar. Entering the yard, he uttered a cry of joyful astonishment: a
little flower garden had been laid out beside the door of the house; he
recognized with emotion in the gay blossoms, now in the full bloom of
summer, the seeds and slips which he had given the child in Arbor, nay,
even ordered from Gaul. Italian and Gallic flowers and shrubs,
evidently tended by loving hands, splendid roses and evergreen yews
greeted him in thick beds, and also small fruit-trees. Pontine
cherries, Picentinian apples, Aquitanian pears, had grown as high as
the door.

"Yes, yes," said Ausonius, smiling, "how everything has grown and
blossomed in five years!" Then something whirred over his head; from
openings in the stable-roof a whole flock of dainty little blue-gray
doves flew across the garden to the neighboring field of oats. "See,"
cried Ausonius, looking after them. "My Lycian rock-doves from
Burdigala! How that one pair has multiplied!"

He hesitated to enter the house. Doubtless he told himself that the
hope of finding her he sought was faint, nay futile. But here
everything seemed to bear witness to her presence; there on the bench
before the dwelling lay--he knew them well--the delicate garden shears
which he had sent to her from Vindonissa. He did not wish to cross the
threshold and rob himself of every hope.

The clank of armor came from the open door: a centurion belonging to
Herculanus's troop approached, bowing respectfully. "Everything is
empty, _vir illuster_, the Tribune sends word. And we are to ask
you--we are burning all the Barbarians' houses--whether this too--"

"Let it remain uninjured."

The man nodded with a look of pleasure. "I am glad to obey the order.
It would have been a hard task to destroy this home. Umbrian roses,
Picen