LITMIR.BIZ

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these words he withdrew from the parapet, still muttering and fighting the air with his arms; and Lucilia declared that she should positively die of laughing if this extraordinary sleep-walker went through any farther adventures. The moon was already high in the sky, when the party separated. Quintus led his visitor to the strangers’ rooms, wished him goodnight, and went to his own cubiculum93 where his slaves stood yawning as they waited for him. For a time, however, he paced his room in meditation; then pausing in his walk, he looked undecidedly through the open doorway and asked: “What is the hour?”

      “It wants half an hour of midnight,” replied Blepyrus, his body-servant.

      “Very good – I do not want to sleep yet. Open the window; the air here is suffocating. Blepyrus, give me my dagger.”

      “The Syrian dagger?”

      “A useless question – when do I ever use any other?”

      “Here, my lord,” said Blepyrus, taking the dagger out of a closet in the wall.

      “It is only as a precaution. Lately all sorts of wild rabble have haunted Baiae and the neighborhood. I am going to take a walk for an hour or so,” and he went to the door. “But mind,” he added, “this late expedition is a secret.”

      The slaves bowed.

      “You know us, my lord!” they said with one accord.

      Quintus went out again into the arcades. The colonnaded court lay white and dream-like in the moonshine, the shadows of the statues fell blackly sharp on the dewy grass-plot and the chequered outlines of the mosaic pavement. Quintus hastened noiselessly to the postern-gate, which led from the peristyle into the park; he pushed back the bolt and was out on the terrace. Complete silence reigned around; only the very tops of the trees bent to the soft night-breeze. Quintus looked down upon Baiae. Here and there a light twinkled in the harbor; otherwise it was like a city of the dead. Then he looked down the black darkness of the shrubbery paths into the wilderness and seemed to waver, but he drew a little letter out of the belt of his tunic and studied it, meditating.

      “In fact,” said he to himself, “the whole affair wears the aspect of a mad adventure; it would not be the first time that malice had assumed such a disguise! But no! Such a scheme would be too clumsy; what warranty would the traitor have, that I should come alone? Besides, if I have any knowledge of love-intrigue, these lines were undoubtedly written by a woman’s hand.”

      He opened the note,94 which was written on pale yellow Alexandrian paper with the finest ink. The red silk that tied it was sealed with yellow wax, and bore the impression of a finely-cut intaglio. The handwriting betrayed practice, and the whole thing looked as if it had come from the hands of a cultivated and distinguished fine lady. The contents answered to this supposition; the style was marked by aristocratic affectations and rhetorical grace, while it revealed that vein of eager, jealous passion, which stamps the Roman woman to this day.

      “There is no doubt about it,” muttered Quintus, when he had once more carefully examined every detail. “This is in hot earnest, and she commands me to meet her with the assurance of a goddess. And with all her domineering confidence, what sweet coaxing – what inviting tenderness! It would be treason to the divine influences of Venus to hesitate. Nay, fair unknown! – for you must surely be fair – beautiful as the goddess whose inspiration fires your blood! Nothing but beauty can give a woman courage to write such words as these!”

      He replaced the note in his bosom and took the same path that he had trodden a few hours since with Aurelius; listening sharply on each side as he got farther into the thicket, and keeping his hand on his dagger, he slowly mounted the hill. All nature seemed to be sleeping, and the distant cry of a night-bird sounded as if in a dream. Before long he had reached the spot where the path turned off to the pavilion. The little temple stood out in the moonlight as sharply as by day against the dark-blue sky, like an erection of gleaming silver and snow; the light seemed to ripple on the marble like living, translucent dew – and, in the middle, the goddess sat enthroned! – a tall form robed in white, her face veiled, motionless as though indeed a statue. Quintus paused for an instant; then he mounted to the top and said bowing low:

      “Unknown one, I greet thee!”

      “And I thee, Quintus Claudius!” answered a voice that was tremulous with agitation.

      “You, madam, have commanded, and I, Quintus Claudius, have obeyed. Now, will you not reveal the secret I am burning to discover?”

      The veiled lady took the young man gently by the hand and drew him tenderly to a seat.

      “My secret!” she repeated with a sigh. “Can you not guess it? Quintus, divinest, most adorable Quintus – I love you!”

      “Your favors confound me!” said Quintus in the tone of a man to whom such phrases were familiar. His unknown companion threw her arms round him, leaned her head on his shoulder, and burst into tears.

      “Oh, happy, intoxicating hour!” she breathed in a rapturous undertone. “You, the noblest of men, my idol, whom I have thought of so long, watched with such eager eyes —you, Quintus, mine – mine at last! It is too much happiness!”

      Quintus, under the stormy fervor of this declaration, felt an uneasy mistrust which he tried in vain to repress. This despotic “mine – mine” gave him a sensation as of the grip of a siren. He involuntarily rose.

      “My good fortune takes my breath away!” he said in flattering accents; doubly flattering to atone for the hasty impulse by which he had stood up. “But now grant my bold desire, and let me see your face. Let me know who it is, that vouchsafes me such unparalleled favors.”

      “You cannot guess?” she whispered reproachfully. “And yet it is said, that the eyes of love are keen. Quintus, my beloved, Fate denies us all open and unchecked happiness; it is in secret only that your lips may ever meet mine. But you know that true love mocks at obstacles – nay more, the flowers that blossom in the very valley of death are those that smell sweetest.”

      Quintus drew back a step.

      “Once more,” he insisted, “tell me who you are?”

      The tall figure raised a beautiful arm, that shone like Parian marble in the moonlight, and slowly lifted her veil.

      “The Empress!"95 cried Quintus dismayed.

      “Not ‘the Empress’ to you, my Quintus – to you Domitia, hapless, devoted Domitia, who could die of love at your feet.”

      Quintus stood immovable.

      “Fear nothing,” she said smiling. “No listener is near to desecrate the perfect bliss of this moonlit night.”

      “Fear?” retorted Quintus. “I am not a girl, to go into fits in a thunder-storm. What I resolve on I carry out to the end, though the end be death! Besides, I know full well, that your favors bloom in secret places – as silent and as harmless as the roses in a private garden.”

      Domitia turned pale.

      “And what do you mean by that?” she asked shuddering.

      “You live far away from Caesar, your husband; you are served by spies; your palace is a labyrinth with a hundred impenetrable chambers…”

      “Indeed!” said Domitia, controlling her excitement. “But still, I saw you start. What dismayed you so much, if it was not the suspicion of danger?”

      “You know,” answered the young man hesitating, “that I am one of those who are ranked as Caesar’s friends.96 A friend – though merely an official friend – cannot betray the man he is bound to defend.”

      Domitia laughed loudly.

      “Fine speeches, on my word!” she exclaimed scornfully. “Friendship, for the executioner who cuts your head off! Fidelity to a bloodthirsty ruffian! No, Quintus – I know better. You are staunch, but not from fidelity – from prudence!”

      Quintus

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