now, indeed, there was a pretty pleading in her voice. The words
were to him as pearls strung on a silken thread.

"Wait a little."

"I shall not wait."

"Sweet flower of Rome," said he, looking into her eyes, "I know that
you are mine now! Your voice--it is like the love-call of the robin!"

"Stubborn boy! Do you think I care for you?" She stopped and looked
into his eyes.

"Else why should you wish to see the coin?" said he. "But, look! Upon
my soul it is false!" A little silence followed.

"'Tis false!" he repeated. "I swear the coin lies, for I do love you,
dearly."

"It does not lie," she whispered.

He put his arm about her.

"And I know," he answered, "why you think it cannot lie. It said,
before, that you love me, and it was right."

She thrust him away gently, and, rising, as if stricken with sudden
fear of him, ran a few paces up the walk. She turned quickly, and
looked back at him as he approached. Her face had grown pale.

"I--I shall never speak with you again," she whispered.

"Oh, have mercy upon me, beautiful sister of Appius!" said the young
knight, and there was a note of despair in his voice. "Have mercy upon
me!"

"Young sir," said she, retreating slowly, as he advanced, "I do not
love you--I do not love you."

She turned quickly, and ran to the peristyle, and, stopping not to
glance back at him, entered the great marble home of her fathers.

He stood a moment looking at the sun-glow behind roof and dome and
tower. A bridge of light, spanning the hollow of the city, had laid
its golden timbers from hill to hill; and for a little the young man
felt as if he were drowning in the shadows under it. He turned
presently and hurried into the palace.

CHAPTER 3

"He is more honored than Jupiter these days," the philosopher was
saying as Vergilius re-entered.

"Who?" inquired the young man.

"Who else but Caesar, and it is well. The gods--who are they?"

"The adopted children of Vergil and Homer," said Appius, brother of
Arria, who had just returned from the baths.

"But our great father Augustus--who can doubt that he deserves our
worship?" said the philosopher, a subtle irony in his voice. It was
this learned man who had long been the instructor of Vergilius.

"Who, indeed?" was the remark of another.

"But these gods!"

"At least they are not likely to cut off one's head," said Aulus.

"Speak not lightly of the gods," said Vergilius. "They are still