CHAPTER XXV.

Martialis awoke, or rather came gradually to consciousness, next morning,

with a dull torpor weighing on him like lead, and a brain confused and

racking with pain. Zeno’s sleeping potion, whatever it was, had been mixed

with a liberal hand. Memory came slowly back through the stupor which

clogged his senses, and he instinctively felt for the despatches of which

he had charge. They were there all right, and he turned his heavy aching

head toward the little table. A jug stood thereon along with the victuals

he had left untouched the night before. To his joy he found it had been

replenished with water. His mouth was parched and his lips dry and

cracked, and he drank with avidity. The grateful draught restored him

vastly, and he also partook of some bread and fruit. Then lying back again

on the bed he gave himself up to his poignant reflections, and awaited

what should follow.

He had ever the most strict injunctions to deliver papers and despatches

to no one but the Prefect himself, whenever he was employed as their

bearer, therefore there arose the idea in his mind, and a hope also, that

his commander would be one of the first to visit him, if allowed. At any

rate, captive as he was, he determined not to give up his charge to any

one but the Prefect himself, or to some one authorised by the Prefect, in

writing, to receive the same. Thus he might be able, perhaps, to cause his

commander to visit him in person, an act he was earnestly desirous of,

since he hoped to gain his influence in his behalf, and more especially in

that of Neæra. Of her his mind was filled with fears and imaginings which

tortured him with sufferings of suspense too deep to be described. He knew

nothing of the time, whether it was night or day, since he was beneath

ground; but he had been lying long awake when he heard a key put into the

door. To his joy his conjectures were realised by the entrance of Sejanus.

The Prefect was genuinely troubled at the situation of his favourite

officer, and drew from him a detailed relation of what had occurred.

‘You were ill‐advised in being so bold and desperate,’ said Sejanus,

shaking his head. ‘A calmer method would have been more politic.’

‘I think not, though I never stayed at the time to deliberate,’ returned

Martialis sternly. ‘Being too late to deliver her ere she reached this

accursed place, I knew that no escape but death remained for her—therefore

I gave her the means. But for a cunning trick all had been successful, and

you, Prefect, would now have been lacking a Centurion and a few

Pretorians.’

‘Humph, it is better as it is, Martialis—we must have you free of this

place again.’

‘Preserve her, Prefect; I care little for myself if I am assured of her

safety. Do this for me, I adjure you; for I have spared nothing in your

service. Pray and entreat him, and if he be still pitiless, do as I did,

and find the means of providing her with a secret weapon of freedom. She

will bless you as I will—promise me, Prefect, in mercy to her—to us both!

The gods only know what agony of mind is mine. The torture of thinking of

the pure, sweet girl in the power of those wretches above us—to imagine

her shrinking in their foul, pitiless hands—oh!’ The young man shook his

clenched fists and then buried his face in his hands.

His distress, and the poignant groan which closed his speech moved his

commander’s heart, albeit not over sensitive in such matters.

‘My best efforts shall not be wanting,’ he replied. ‘Think better of it.

It is early yet, but as soon as Caesar is stirring, I will put this matter

right, depend upon it—why, I cannot do without thee.’

Martialis uttered his thanks, and, after some more questions in connection

with his mission to Rome, the Prefect buckled the courier’s belt

underneath his cloak and departed from the cell.

The weary time lagged on until the prisoner once more rose from his

recumbent position to greet his commander, who returned with a grave look

on his dark handsome face. Martialis beheld it with a failing heart.

‘I have done what I could, and have gone as far as I could, with safety;

but you have provoked him in no light fashion,’ said Sejanus, shaking his

head.

‘And she?’ cried the young man.

‘Well, as to her, you may rest easy. She is no longer in the palace, but

has been sent away to the household of Livia for safe keeping.’

‘Thank heaven! And to you, thanks are all I am able to give for your good

offices,’ cried Martialis.

His voice choked—his lip trembled. The revulsion of feeling was too much

for his overstrung nature to bear, and tears stopped his voice.

‘There is nothing due to me,’ said the Prefect; ‘the transfer was already

accomplished; but, being where she is, she shall not fail of careful

watching. The noble Livia, as you may have heard, becomes my bride ere

long.’

‘I knew it not, but wish you every joy,’ said Martialis, yet without

warmth; for he could not help recalling to his thoughts the Prefect’s

divorced wife Apicata, who had been frivolously put aside, no doubt to

make way for his present betrothal. ‘It may be I have only a few hours to

live, but the sting of death is gone since I know my Neæra is safe. Tell

her, Prefect, that my last thoughts were of her and for her.’

‘Humph, Caesar is ruffled without doubt, but he does not make away with my

Pretorians so easily,’ said Sejanus, with a proud curl of his lip; ‘you

may leave your last will and bequest over for a space yet.’

‘It is all in your hands, Prefect,’ returned the other.

Sejanus retired, and Martialis was left once more alone with his thoughts.

They were tranquil and even buoyant to what they had been, and he began to

conjecture and weigh arguments in the discussion of his own case. He had

no craven fear of death, but, at the same time, he was young and an ardent

lover, and life had gone pleasantly with him. It cost him a deep pang to

think on what might have been, and Neæra being out of peril, his hold on

the hope of liberty was strengthened in spite of himself. He knew the

stern relentless nature of Tiberius, but he relied on the influence of the

commander, who he was certain would hazard much in his defence.

So he ruminated and turned these things over and over in his mind,

wondering when he should again see the light of day. Zeno, with a guard,

paid him a visit to attend to his wants, and bring him a fresh supply of

provisions, but the worthy Greek was singularly uncommunicative.

When they were gone the prisoner ate and drank more heartily than he had

hitherto done, and, lying down again, fell asleep.

He was awakened by a touch on his shoulder. Opening his eyes he saw, to

his extreme surprise, the Emperor himself standing by his side. He started

up and perceived they were alone together. His heart beat quickly, and

wild thoughts began to rise. There was the tyrant defenceless before

him—the cause, as he believed, of the present situation of himself and

Neæra,—an old man, whom he could crush like a nutshell, delivered to his

hand. Whilst his mind flamed with this idea, his eye instinctively sought

the door, to ascertain whether it was closed upon them. Tiberius,

meanwhile, stood motionless before him. He read the young man’s passing

thoughts quite readily—not a motion or glance escaped him.

‘We are alone, and it occurs to you that I am now in your power,’ said he,

with the utmost calmness; ‘I admit it.’

A flush arose to the cheek of Martialis. It needed no words of Caesar to

show him that he had little to gain from such a desperate act, save a

momentary satisfaction of savage revenge.

‘I have been sorely tried,’ he replied, drawing a deep breath; ‘if such an

idea flashed into my mind it died on the instant—you need have no fear.’

‘I knew it,’ said Tiberius; ‘I love my Pretorians, and an officer and

youth of such prowess as you have proved yourself to possess, is well

worthy of the mature consideration of a ruler. The circumstances of your

case are so unusual that my interest has led me to visit you personally.’

Martialis bowed his head.

‘One thing seems to demand forbearance, and that is your youth, with its

hot unreasoning blood. Without thought, scruple, or calculation of a

moment, you plunge headlong into my chamber, amid my guests and servants,

utterly regardless of everything, in pursuit of your sweetheart, just as

you would, doubtless, have rushed into the midst of a band of Satyrs.’

‘You are right—I was excited to desperation—I would have followed her

anywhere—nor do I now repent,’ said the young man frankly; ‘the welfare of

my betrothed is more to me than life itself.’

Tiberius nodded gently, with a countenance as impassive as the Sphinx.

‘I entreated your pardon, Caesar, for my rude intrusion into the privacy

of the Imperial chamber, and I humbly submit my fault once more for your

forbearance and forgiveness,’ added Martialis quickly.

‘It was a fault which set at defiance all discipline, authority, and

respect. What then is the punishment? You, as a soldier, ought to know.’

‘I am well aware that my offence brings me within the extreme punishment

of all. Caesar is master of life and death.’

‘Is there any reason why the penalty should not be enforced?’

‘I am ready,’ said Martialis, calmly returning the gaze of the Emperor.

‘But, as a soldier, who has ever done his duty, two requests might be

mercifully granted.’

‘Name them.’

‘That I suffer no dishonourable death, and that the maiden may be returned

to her people in safety and honour. Or, if these be too much, grant, at

least, the latter, and deal with me as you will as regards the former.’

‘I have said that your headstrong youth claims an amount of indulgence,

and I grant both requests.’

‘Thanks from my heart.’

‘Your betrothed shall not be harmed—she is now in safe keeping. There is

the first condition settled.’

‘Then I am at peace.’

‘And for the other, you shall name yourself the manner of your death.’

‘A single sword‐thrust here,’ said the Centurion, laying his hand over his

heart. ‘I bear an old and honourable name.’

Tiberius bent a long and searching gaze upon him, and then rising to his

feet, paced up and down the cell for some moments.

‘I love my Pretorians, and cannot bear to see them come to harm,’ he

muttered. The words reached the ears of Martialis, whose heart throbbed

with renewed hope which would not be denied. Then Caesar returned to his

seat and said, ‘The Prefect has spoken to me concerning you—has he seen

you here?’

‘He came for the despatches I bore,’ answered the Centurion; ‘I know he

would speak favourably of me.’

‘He did so—you often act as his courier?’

‘Very frequently.’

‘I remember to have seen you before in that capacity.’

‘I have often had the honour of carrying important letters between the

Prefect and yourself.’

‘Yes, you are favoured with his confidence. Do your missions ever include

any diplomatic or political business?’

‘No—I know nothing of either, and have no desire to learn. My profession

suffices to fill my entire attention.’

‘Good,’ said the Emperor approvingly; ‘you are a soldier, pure and simple,

as you ought to be. It is all the more pity you have committed this

fault.’

He rose from his seat and walked the cell again. Martialis watched him

anxiously.

‘It is strange that you, a man of noble blood, should stoop to a girl of a

base artisan,’ said Tiberius. ‘Do you say you are betrothed, and meant to

marry her?’

‘I did,’ replied the other, with a little sternness; ‘you have already

passed your word for her safety, and that is sufficient assurance: but I

have reason to believe, Caesar, that she is not the potter’s child.’

‘I have already heard that—it requires proof, however—give it me,’ said

Tiberius, with an incredulous smile curling his lip.

‘I cannot prove it,’ returned Martialis; ‘but at least I can tell you all

I know.’

And he accordingly related the slender facts committed to him the previous

night.

‘And this man, Cestus, whom she supposes to be her uncle—is he still in

Surrentum?’

‘I cannot tell. But his last words were, that he would hasten away to Rome

at once—I presume to reveal all to her relatives.’

‘Did he not say who these were?’

‘I should have said relative,’ replied Martialis; ‘according to his tale

there is only one remaining—her grandfather, Fabricius, who lives on the

Janiculum.’

‘Fabricius of the Janiculum,’ repeated Tiberius, tapping his forehead;

‘Fabricius belongs to other days, but if I am not mistaken, his heir is

fully with the times. Is he not the worthy Domitius Afer, the bosom friend

of the Prefect?’

Martialis was confused and silent, for he saw he had unwittingly betrayed

what Cestus had particularly enjoined him to keep secret.

‘If this is so, then the tale certainly grows in interest,’ continued

Tiberius, with a dark twinke of his eyes; ‘it lends it more substance and

probability.’

‘I made a breach of trust in causing the name of Afer to be revealed,’

said Martialis anxiously; ‘were he to know, it might prove a risk to her.’

‘Be at peace, Centurion—I have such sympathy with the knight, that I could

ill bear the matter to be interrupted for his sake.’

Caesar smiled grimly, and then his brows knitted in deep thought. He

remained thus for some minutes without speaking. The young man’s heart

throbbed fast, and it needed a great effort to retain an outward

appearance of composure.

‘Centurion,’ said Tiberius, at length raising his head from his breast, ‘I

love my Pretorians, and to deal hardly with them pains my heart. I have

pondered on your case, and find much in excuse of your conduct—the

inconsiderate rashness and haste of your youth, and the overwrought state

of your feelings, which was only to be expected. I will not say I pardon

you, but I will give you a chance of redeeming your liberty.’

The Centurion faltered out his thanks from a heart overflowing with joy.

‘Anything that may be honestly undertaken I will strain body and mind to

accomplish, and prove my sense of your clemency,’ he said.

‘You will find it to your taste, Centurion,’ said Tiberius, speaking with

a polished affability which proved irresistible to his astonished

prisoner. ‘I propose that you busy yourself in establishing the identity

of your betrothed with the granddaughter of Fabricius of the Janiculum.

The fate of your endeavours will determine your own.’

Dumfounded with excess of wonder and joy, Martialis was speechless for a

few moments. It seemed too good to be true, and he gazed in Caesar’s face

with a lurking suspicion that, perhaps, he was, after all, the object of a

bitter joke.

‘Do you accept?’ asked Tiberius, smiling.

‘Ah, if I were sure you do not jest.’

‘Should you fail in proving your point you will eventually find it no

jest.’

‘It shall not be for the want of a trial—but how am I to commence, and

when?’

‘Proceed on your task in the manner you think best; you shall be set at

liberty to‐night. Since you are so swift and faithful a courier, I will

also entrust something of my own to your care. It will, therefore, be

necessary for you to proceed to Rome direct. I do not choose it to be

known that I have broken the law, which demands that you should be

punished—it would be impolitic. It is, therefore, necessary that you

depart in absolute secrecy. That will be arranged for you. At nightfall

you will be removed to the villa Neptune, whither I am about to start

within an hour. I will, again, see you there, and, till then, breathe not

a word, or your hope will be cut off at once—nay, you must even continue

to appear the downcast prisoner whose hours are numbered.’

‘I will attend to the very letter of your instructions—Caesar will never

be better served,’ replied the Pretorian; ‘I only wish you gave me a

better opportunity to prove my gratitude.’

‘You are hasty—you have nothing but the tale of an idle vagabond to rely

on. If I were in your place, I should have preferred the chance of facing

a cohort single‐handed. You know the terms—consider them in the interval.’

So saying Tiberius left the cell, and Martialis flung himself on the bed

to think on what had passed.

Was this the cruel Tiberius? It was hardly to be realised! It was so

extraordinary that his heart failed, as the sickening thought crept into

his mind that he was the victim of refined cruelty. His senses were on the

alert, with an expectation which was positive pain. If Caesar were as good

as his word, he would be breathing the pure air of heaven in a few hours.

The thought filled him with the glowing warmth and comfort of wine. On

Cestus everything depended. Had he left for Rome? Should he meet him at

the house of Fabricius? Had he the proofs, as he asserted, and would they

be conclusive and satisfactory to the old man? Was she really anything but

the simple girl he had always known her? The potter’s wife said she never

had a child of her own. Her beauty seemed never to spring from such lowly

parents. She bore no resemblance to them, and her lofty courage was such

as comes with the proud blood of ancient ancestry.

Thus, with a multitude of thoughts vivid and wild, presumptive, yet

inconclusive, he waited and burned for the hour of his deliverance. It

came, at last, in the person of Zeno and half a dozen Pretorians.

The Centurion played his part well, and asked various questions as to his

destination and fate; but, when they produced bonds to fasten him, he drew

back.

‘No—not those,’ said he proudly; ‘I will go with you, comrades, without

giving you the trouble of a knot or a buckle.’

They assented, and presently all left the cell and marched down to the

Marina. Here they took boat, and were rowed to the north‐west side of the

island, where the villa Neptune stood. Ascending the cliffs by a narrow

flight of steps cut in the rock, they reached the level ground above and

entered the villa. Martialis was conducted to a cell beneath ground, and

very similar to the one he had left, save that it was somewhat larger.

Wine and food was brought him, and he proceeded at once to make a hearty

meal. The fresh air had invigorated him, and dispelled, in a great

measure, the vapours with which his drugged drink had filled him.

Moreover, it was dusk by the time they had entered the villa, and he

expected and hoped to encounter a night’s toil. He had just finished

eating when the key rattled in the lock, and Caesar entered.

‘Have you eaten well, for you have a long journey before you?’ asked

Tiberius.

‘I am ready,’ replied Martialis.

‘Then listen! On your own concern, proceed as you think best, but first of

all you must carry and deliver a letter for me.’

‘I will ride without a single stop.’

‘Wait until you hear, for this business must be carried out in a different

manner, else I had not brought you here. It is necessary, for the reasons

already given, that your absence be not known to any one. Whilst you are

leagues away, the guard will still be stationed at the upper end of the

corridor, under the belief that you are a prisoner. Provisions will still

be supplied, and all details will go on, in order that no suspicion may be

aroused. I, myself, and the Prefect are journeying down the coast,

southward, for a few days, so that no one will interfere—you comprehend

fully?’

‘Quite.’

‘This letter you must deliver at the earliest,’ said the Emperor, drawing

a small packet from his bosom. ‘Never rest until you have placed it with

your own hands in those of the lady to whom it is addressed. Guard it and

care for it as your own life. I never wrote a more important and weighty

despatch. You see, I place implicit faith in you.’

‘You will have no occasion to repent your faith,’ replied Martialis, who

now began to perceive that something more than personal interest in

himself was answerable for his ruler’s clemency and strange proceeding.

‘That I fully expect,’ said Tiberius, ‘and, as your absence from

confinement is not to be revealed here, it follows, naturally, that your

presence must not be known in the city. Were it known there it would

speedily be known here. For that end, therefore, you must not stir abroad

in the city in daylight. That is all. It is simple. You will deliver the

packet promptly at the first nightfall possible. The second night after

that you will go and receive an answer and return straightway. The mean

time you may use for your own concern; but I forbid you to run any risk of

betraying your presence.’

The Emperor clapped his hands and Zeno entered. He bore an armful of

clothing, and proceeded to disguise the outward appearance of the

Centurion. The cuirass, high boots, and all vestiges of the military

profession, were exchanged for the loose garments of a trader, in the

breast of which the nimble‐fingered Greek adroitly concealed and secured

the secret missive of his master. To complete all, a wig was drawn over

the close, curling locks of the Centurion, which more than all effected a

transformation in the young man’s appearance.

‘’Twill not blind every one, unless the Centurion can manage to alter his

speech and bearing to suit,’ said Zeno.

‘It will serve his purpose sufficiently well. Let him never speak until

compelled,’ said Tiberius. ‘Now you may start, Centurion. Here in writing

is the name and place required for the delivery of the letter. Keep it in

your pouch, and do not preserve it longer than necessary. Here is money,

also, without which you cannot move. Do not spare it. Go now and be

secret. Zeno will conduct you.’

Tiberius nodded, and, Martialis turning round, saw, to his astonishment a

narrow opening in the cell wall opposite to the door, and beside it Zeno

standing smiling, with a lantern in his hand, ready to conduct him.

‘It leads to the grotto beneath, and so avoids busy eyes above,’ said the

Emperor. ‘_Vale._’

The steward went through the secret opening, and Martialis followed down a

narrow subterranean way for a considerable distance. The descent was

continuous, and in some places by means of broad shallow steps. A door

closed the exit, and when Zeno opened it he gave the key to his companion.

‘You must return to Capreae by no other way than this. On the upper door

you will find a small knob on the left hand side; press it and you will be

able to enter your cell again.’

Then desiring him to stand still lest he should fall into the water, the

steward lit a torch, with which he had provided himself, and Martialis

perceived they were in the largest of those wonderful caverns or grottoes

which exist in various places in the island, along the foot of the sea‐

washed cliffs. As one of the wonders of the island he had been in it

before, though, of course, entering from the sea; and had seen with

delight and wonder the dazzling effects of the blue refraction of the

light in daytime, and the lovely silvery colour which the deep water lent

to every object immersed therein. The torch of Zeno gave sufficient light

by which to unmoor a light skiff which floated beside the little landing‐

place on which they stood. The red glare fell on the still, dark, deep

water, but failed to pierce to the lofty roof, or yet to the full circuit

of the cavern, which nature had curiously domed out of the rock. The

Centurion got into the boat and Zeno gave him the torch, advising him, at

the same time, to be careful to provide himself with another on his return

as well as the means of lighting it. He pushed off the shallop, and the

impetus was sufficient to bring it to the outlet of the cavern. This was

an orifice of small dimensions, and so low that it did not admit of even a

sitting posture in the boat. Guiding his skiff therein, Martialis threw

his torch into the water and uttered a farewell which rolled in hollow

echoes through the cavern. Then he lay down at full length in the boat,

and giving a vigorous shove, swept out into the open moonlit sea without.

PART III.

CHAPTER I.

Though Quintus Fabricius had long since withdrawn from public life, and

spent his days mainly in the library of his mansion, he was not altogether

so secluded in his habits, as to entirely forego the society of two or

three ancient friends and colleagues of the busy days of politics gone by.

From supper at the house of one of these, he returned one evening at an

early old‐fashioned hour, and upon entering his own hall, was met by

Natta, his ancient steward, who informed him, that a man who had travelled

for days to see him, was now awaiting him on some pressing business.

Fabricius, thinking, perhaps, it was some affair connected with some

distant estate, desired the visitor to be brought, and, entering his

favourite library, sat down before the fire, being still deep in the

thoughts of a literary discussion which had raged over the supper‐table.

In a few moments Natta ushered in Cestus. He looked pale and worn; his

brows wore an anxious wrinkle, and his glance was uneasy and restless. It

was now the fourth evening following that on which Martialis had quitted

him in the despoiled dwelling of Masthlion. The wind blowing fair, and

promising a speedy voyage, he had embarked on a trader bound for Ostia,

but contrary to expectation the passage proved long and tedious, owing to

the wind falling light and baffling. On reaching port, with a mind

overwrought with impatience, he posted along without stop, until he

reached the mansion on the Janiculum. It was not without an amount of

distrust he appeared before the old ex‐senator. It was no pricking of

conscience for the wrong he had done him, but purely fear, lest he might

be recognised in connection with the part he had played in that self‐same

room, at no great distance of time back, when he had acted the part of a

murderous decoy. He trusted, however, to his changed appearance, which he

had ever maintained, and, at the worst, was confident that he had the

power to make almost his own terms.

He met the scrutiny of Fabricius, therefore, with his accustomed boldness,

and when, after a lengthened survey, the old man motioned him forward and

asked his business, he felt relieved with the assurance that he was not

recognised.

‘I have come a long way from the south—I have been travelling for days to

see you,’ said he; ‘that means important business, noble Fabricius, and I

must ask you to hear it alone with me.’

But Natta was deaf to the hint and moved not from his post behind; nor did

his master give him any sign to do so.

‘My steward has my confidence in everything—go on!’ said Fabricius.

‘You will pardon me, but before a third person I cannot speak; nor would

you suffer another to be present if you knew what I had to say.’

‘Then leave it unsaid!’ replied the old man testily.

Cestus drew near him and said in a low tone,

‘Did you not receive a letter, not long ago, containing a piece of

ribbon?’

Fabricius started and fixed an intent look on the Suburan. His breast

heaved with a sudden emotion.

‘Well, what of it?’ he said.

‘You did receive it, then?’ said Cestus.

Fabricius nodded hastily.

‘Then I am the bearer of a further message from him who wrote that letter

and sent that ribbon—and see, here is my warrant!’

Cestus drew from his breast the remaining portion of the faded ribbon from

which he had cut the former piece enclosed to Fabricius. When the eyes of

the latter fell on it, his frame trembled with an agitation he could not

hide. He motioned Natta to depart, and when the door was closed, he

unlocked a cabinet, and took therefrom the tablets he had received, with

the ribbon in question. His eye had told him, at a glance, that the two

portions were of the self‐same fabric; but, partly to hide his feelings,

and because he felt he could scarcely trust his voice, he nervously went

on fitting the severed ends together.

‘You see that all is right—that one piece has been cut from the other,’

said Cestus at length.

‘Who are you, and what do you know of this?’ asked Fabricius, in a voice

which palpably trembled. ‘Something in your face or tone seems familiar to

me.’

‘I cannot say whether I resemble any one you know, noble sir,’ replied the

Suburan, with _sang froid_; ‘but, touching the ribbon, it was sent because

it is of an uncommon pattern; for which reason it was also thought you

might remember and recognise it, as having been worn by the child, your

granddaughter, long ago.’

‘I could not remember it; but when it came, like a message from the dead,

I searched among the little garments and clothing in the child’s room,

which remains undisturbed as when she left it, and there I found some more

of the same pattern. How came you by it? Tell me quickly what you know;

and yet most likely it is nothing but another befooling—another deception

of a foolish, fond, old man!’

‘I know well enough you have been fooled many times, but I know just as

well, that you never had a proof like this—something to see and

touch—something that fits into its proper place, in this affair, without

any denial. This is different to the tales and tricks which have been

specially made to draw money from your coffers. The girl is alive and

well, and I have other proofs, better than this, to show and tell you.’

‘Man—man! if money be your object, you are labouring in vain,’ said

Fabricius, feebly endeavouring to appear firm and resolute; ‘I have spent

my last coin in the folly, and now when extreme age is beginning to lay

its hold on me, I have at last learnt my lesson from experience. In no

great time now I shall be with my fathers—there will be an end of my

sorrows—for that I can now wait. If you are bent on extortion and

falsehood your opportunity is gone. Nay more, I will put an end to such

deception, and claim the help of justice—so take care!’

‘It is a pity you never did so before,’ said Cestus. ‘Had you done so, you

might possibly have learnt something which would have saved you no end of

bother, disappointment, and money. However, all that you shall learn

presently. I have something to ask of you, it is true; but I ask it on

condition that you fulfil your promise, only, when you are fully satisfied

and claim your grandchild. You see how certain I must be when I can offer

such terms.’

‘What is it you ask?’

‘That you give me your solemn promise, to allow me to go unharmed by you

or any one else, and that, in consideration of my services, you will

reward me with what you consider a fair return—the amount I leave to your

own liberality.’

‘Why do you wish me to guarantee to keep you safe and unharmed? What

necessity for this, when your action would be kind and merciful in the

highest degree?’

‘Because, when you hear the history of the whole affair, it is possible my

part in it may not please you,’ said the Suburan coolly.

‘If you have wronged her or me you shall be punished, and everything shall

be wrung from you, as you deserve, without guarantee or reward.’

‘Then, in that case, I will go no further; and you shall never see or hear

of your missing grandchild again, simply for the reason, that I, alone,

know who and where she is, and I, alone, hold the proofs of the same. I

desire to serve myself as well as you; but, at the same time, I will not

thrust myself into danger on that account. Without your promise in writing

I will say nothing, except this, that she was safe and well until four

days ago, when something occurred which has put her in some danger—you

must understand she has grown up tall and comely. I have, therefore, come

at much cost and fatigue, in mercy to you and her. Her situation at

present is not to be envied, and the sooner we come to terms and see to

her welfare the better.’

‘I must know more than this—this is only a tale like others I have heard,

save, that it is, perhaps, more ingenious and plausible,’ said Fabricius,

in a great tremor. ‘Give me more proofs—show me that I may place faith in

you, and you will find that I shall not be behindhand with you in anything

that is fair and reasonable.’

Cestus knit his brows and mused a little.

‘I thought it would have been enough for any man to see I was no

impostor,’ he said at length, pointing at the ribbons; ‘the child wore

those when she was taken away from here—is it not enough?’

‘No!’ answered Fabricius.

‘To give me such a paper will not in any way commit you, Fabricius; for,

in it, you will not undertake to fulfil your promise, till you are

satisfied that I have done my part in the business.’

‘I will do nothing without further assurance that I am not trifled

with—let that end it!’

‘Very well, then, in consideration for the young girl, for whom I have a

regard, I will give way a point from what I had determined, in order that

she may not be sacrificed—otherwise your stubbornness would ruin all. If I

were to bring you the clothes she wore when you lost her, even to an

amulet, would you then give me the writing?’

‘Yes, if they satisfied me as being hers.’

‘Would you know them?’

‘I would know the amulet.’

‘Good—then I will bring them!’

‘Have you not them with you?’

‘No; but they are not far away,’ said Cestus, with a cunning grin. ‘I am

not in the habit of surrendering myself so completely; but now, with the

assurance of your promise, I will do what I had no intention of doing. You

may send your slaves along with me if you wish.’

‘Go alone. If you do not return I shall know that one more attempt on my

credulity has failed.’

‘A few minutes will set your doubts at rest,’ replied Cestus, and he left

the room.

As soon as he was gone, the patrician poured out some wine, with a

trembling hand, and drank it to brace his aged frame against the nervous

tremor which possessed it. His agitation would not allow him to rest, so

he wandered up and down the apartment. Once or twice he listened at the

door which stood ajar, and, whilst doing so, heard the sound of returning

steps. It was his visitor returning with Natta at his side. Both entered

as before, but the suspicious steward again received the sign to withdraw.

Cestus advanced to the table, beside which Fabricius has reseated himself,

and laid thereon a bundle, carefully wrapped up and tied.

‘These are the traps,’ he said, and proceeded to open the parcel. Taking

out the tiny garments of a child he displayed them on the table.

The old man, with a strange inarticulate cry, seized them in his hands,

and examined them with a devouring eagerness.

‘See!’ said Cestus, laying his broad finger‐tip against an embroidered

mark on one of the little linen underclothes, ‘here is a mark of

ownership, I take it.’

‘Yes, yes! But the amulet!’ cried Fabricius feverishly.

‘Here ’tis,’ replied the Suburan, drawing from his bosom a little soft

leather bag, having a fine steel chain attached.

His companion pounced on it, and plucked out a small agate, carved into

the shape of an open hand, bearing a curious symbol cut into the palm.

He gazed on it for a few moments, with his wrinkled face twitching. Then

he pressed it convulsively to his lips, and, sinking his head, buried his

face in the child’s garments on the table, huddling them up against his

silvery hairs with both arms.

Cestus, anxious and impatient as he was, forbore to break the silence.

At length Fabricius raised his head and spoke in a broken voice, ‘I am an

old man and you must excuse my weakness, friend—the sight of these trifles

tries me hard.’

‘Drink!’ said Cestus, filling a cup; ‘there is nothing like good wine to

cheer one. Forget what has passed and think on the good time that is

coming to wipe it out.’

‘Thanks!’ answered Fabricius, taking the cup with an unsteady hand. ‘Fill

yourself also a draught,’ which invitation Cestus obeyed, nothing loth.

‘Here’s to the speedy restoration of your little maid,’ he said, and

bottomed the cup. ‘Now, as you are satisfied that these trifles are really

genuine, and that I am not deceiving you, I must ask you to write me that

little document; after which, you shall know the whole story, which will

contain certain items which will astonish you without doubt.’

Fabricius reached his writing materials and wrote, slowly and painfully, a

brief undertaking, by which the personal safety of Cestus would be

assured, and his efforts suitably rewarded, upon the satisfactory

restoration of his grandchild.

Cestus perused the document, and, finding it satisfactory, put it away

carefully in his breast.

‘Thanks! thanks! I value, and rely upon your word equally; but then I may

fall into other hands, in which case this paper might be useful. I will

commence and tell you from the beginning, and you may brace yourself up to

hear something which will startle you.’

He poured out and drank some more wine, and then began his declaration.

‘Your little maid was stolen from your own porch, here on the Janiculum,

fifteen years ago, all but three months and three days—if you have the day

marked, consult it, and you will find I am right.’

Giving a start of surprise, Fabricius began to count with the fingers of

one hand on the table, to assist a mental calculation.

‘You are right, without doubt,’ he said finally; ‘how come you to know

this?’

‘None so well as I,’ returned the other, ‘you shall learn.’

He then related the manner in which the child had been enticed and snapped

away from the porch of the house, the various places she had been hidden

away, until her final removal to Surrentum. The extreme minuteness of the

narrative was too extraordinary not to impress his listener’s mind with an

inward conviction of its truth, but, as our reader is already acquainted

with its tenor, it need not be recapitulated here.

‘Yes, noble Fabricius, Surrentum is full of potters,’ said Cestus,

concluding, ‘and with one of them, called Masthlion, and his wife Tibia,

was finally lodged your little maid; and, with them, a childless pair, she

has grown up well cared for and tended, as I know well. She thinks herself

their child to this hour, and it is time you took her to your own nest.

Her poor feathers cannot hide her breed. She is known by the name of

Neæra.’

Fabricius sat looking at the Suburan with the torture of his mind

imprinted on his pale face. ‘Why do the gods permit such cruel deeds?’

said he; ‘for what reason was this wickedness perpetrated?’

‘Money,’ said Cestus.

‘Money!’ echoed Fabricius, leaping to his feet in horror; ‘was she sold,

then, for a slave?’

‘Not at all,’ replied the Suburan quietly; ‘cannot you understand? Money

has been at the bottom of it all. You have an enormous amount of it, and

the child was in some one’s way. Once out of it, and then who comes next?

Why your loving nephew, Afer—now do you see?’

‘Fellow, what do you mean? Do you dare to cast even so much as a doubt

upon the honesty of a knight—a relative of mine?—take care!’

‘More than that, your honour, I say it was no other, and through no other,

than your nephew, T. Domitius Afer, that your child was kidnapped.’

‘Fellow!’

‘It is true enough. He wanted her out of the way so that he might be your

heir. For that end he hired a certain individual, now alive, for a

comfortable sum to put her aside, so that she might never more be heard

of.’

‘I’ll not believe it,’ cried the old patrician hoarsely; ‘it must be

proved—where is that wretch whom you say he hired?’

‘What would you do with him supposing I brought him?’

‘Were I forty years younger I would tear him limb from limb with my own

hands—but now nothing remains to me but the justice of the law.’

‘Neither the one nor the other, although he is within your reach at this

moment, for I am the man who was employed by your sweet nephew—I am the

man who took away your child!’

Fabricius stood dumfounded for a moment, and his jaw fell.

Then the blood rushed to his face; his eyes flamed with terrible wrath,

and, with a stride, he confronted Cestus.

‘Dog!’ he shouted hoarsely, as he clutched the Suburan with a grasp which

was inspired with the vigour of youth.

But Cestus, in no way disconcerted, calmly pulled out the written

guarantee from his bosom and held it up. The old man eyed it,

hesitatingly, for a brief moment; then dropped his hands and tottered back

to his chair, wherein he sank with a groan.

‘You have just cause for anger, and I admit it,’ said Cestus, in a lower

and more respectful tone; ‘but you cannot now move without me, and I will

do all I can to make amends. After all I am not so much to blame as your

nephew. At that time I was an idle vagabond—you see I don’t attempt to

hide myself—dwelling in the Subura, and your loving nephew, Titus Afer,

tempted me with a handsome sum to do this thing. Only, mark you—I was to

put the child clean out of the way—that is to say, I was to strangle her,

drown her, kill her in the best and quietest way possible.’—Fabricius hid

his face in his hands.—‘That was what I was paid to do, and, if I had done

that, the job would have served his turn most effectually, as he intended,

and you would never have been the wiser, perhaps. But bad as I was, there

was left yet a soft spot in my heart, and to that is owing the life of the

little maid. I couldn’t bring myself to hurt her; and, moreover, what did

I know but what she might be useful to me in the future. It turns out now

that I was wise. A dead child is of no use to any one, but a living one

is—vastly so at the present time. You will, therefore, see that I had to

deceive your worshipful nephew. He thinks she is dead, as I told him she

was, and all his pretended help in searching for her was nothing but a

blind. Your money went, most of it, into his own pocket—and a comfortable

income it was.’

Fabricius was overwhelmed. He rose unsteadily to his feet, and his face

was ashen pale. Such terrible deception was scarcely credible to his

trustful nature, and yet the evidence seemed too weighty to be easily

explained away. Its great perfectness of detail, the unhesitating

business‐like manner of its delivery—above all, the clothes and

amulet—were beyond doubt. Yet he eyed the man before him with unconcealed

distrust, contempt, and indignation, to which, however, the Suburan was

utterly indifferent.

‘Tell me what reasons have impelled you to come to me now and confess all

this villainy,’ said Fabricius, in hollow tones.

‘Because I am sorry for what I did, and wish to make some amends,’ replied

Cestus.

‘And for this penitence you require to be paid,’ rejoined the other, with

withering scorn; ‘by your own showing you have made terms for committing a

desperate sin, and have probably extorted every sesterce possible in that

direction; now you betray your accomplice, and come to extort more from

me, under a mask of righteousness.’

‘I have told you nothing but the truth, and you may twist it as you like,’

replied Cestus, unmoved; ‘bear in mind, but for me, there would have been

no child at all to welcome back.’

‘I have only your word for that, so far.’

‘The terms made are not to be carried out, on your side, until you are

satisfied with your bargain. That is enough to show, of itself, that I am

in earnest. I must live, and to your own generosity I leave the payment.

But it is not altogether that for which I am here. Your nephew, the

worshipful knight, has dealt very scurvily with me, after his nature. He

is a hundred times more rascal than myself—a mean, cowardly dog, knight as

he is. I have two surprises in store for him—one, when he is confronted

with the girl he paid me to kill, and the other, when his eyes fall on me,

whom he struck down one night, not long since, in the streets, and left

for dead. He thought, when he did that, his secret was for ever safe. But

I was picked up with a hole in my side, and so well tended in a house I

can take you to, that, after a hard fight of it, I came round. I bethought

me of the girl I had left in Surrentum, and I stole away to see how she

fared, and to pick up strength. I have been living for weeks, waiting and

watching in my sister’s house; for it was my sister, and her husband, the

potter, who took her from me. They have loved her like their own child,

and she treats them as her parents, for she knows nothing to the contrary.

Watch well your nephew, therefore, when he first sets eyes on me—if his

conscience don’t visibly trouble him it will be strange. But there is more

yet to be told you, and we are wasting time. When I came away, matters in

my sister’s house were in a bad state. Masthlion had gone to Capreae, to

show Caesar some new kind of glass he had discovered. He was a fool and it

cost him his life; for he found the bloody tyrant in the humour to reward

him with a bed at the bottom of the sea. And more than that, a gang of

slaves, from the palace, I suppose, arrived after dark, and sacked the

house, and took off the girl back with them. You must understand she has

uncommon good looks, and is good prey for this island, which is no place

for her. Now you know what reason there is for haste to protect her. I

could do nothing; but you are a patrician and powerful, and to you Caesar

will listen.’

‘Alas, you told me she was alive and well, and now you say Tiberius has

carried her off to his island—is this your good news?’ cried Fabricius,

wringing his hands. ‘Better indeed dead, I should say, than left to the

mercy of that debauched old man! Four days since you left, and as long for

me to go thither, what hope is there? Why did you not bring her away at

once? Here, in this house, the house from which you say you took her, you

might have proved your words, or damned yourself for ever. You bid me

hope, and then dash hope away. Alive—ay, but if alive, most likely in a

living death—Oh!’

‘Stay a moment,’ said Cestus soothingly, ‘the danger is great; but yet I

have hope. I have not told you that the maid has caught the eye of a

youth, and they are betrothed. I had a suspicion that something ill was

brewing to the girl, and they will bear witness that I did my utmost to

persuade them to come to Rome at once, where she might be in safety; but

they flatly refused to move until the potter came back from the island. He

never did come back, but in his place came the slaves, who tore the girl

away. But soon after they had gone, arrived the youth who has fallen in

love with her. He is a centurion, and was posting from Rome to the island

with despatches, and him I told who she was, and bade him warn Caesar not

to harm her—I said I would go straight and bring you, and now the matter

rests with yourself.’

‘And the name of the youth you say is betrothed to her?’

‘He is a centurion of the Pretorian Guard, and his name is Martialis.’

‘What?’ shouted Fabricius, ‘am I living in a dream the gods have woven

round me? Martialis, did you say—Lucius Martialis, a Pretorian—tall above

the common?’

‘The same—he seemed to know you when I spoke your name, and said you had

lost a child.’

‘Oh, wonder of heaven—the man of all I would have chosen—the son of my old

playmate! Alas, alas, the more you say, the more unhappy and hopeless the

case! Do you not know that the young man has been flung into a dungeon,

awaiting perhaps his death?’

‘By Pluto, no—how could I?’ cried Cestus, aghast.

‘It is here, in a letter received this morning from my nephew,’ replied

Fabricius, taking an epistle from a drawer and glancing down its contents.

‘Listen!’

—‘By the way, the Centurion Martialis, for whom you took such a

sudden fancy, has fallen into disgrace and one of the palace

dungeons, for bearding Caesar in his own hall, in pursuit of a

wench, a sweetheart of his, who had been brought off to the

island, I believe, by force. Of course it means death in some

shape or other.’

The face of Cestus grew dark and sullen as a thundercloud, and he folded

his arms across his chest without a word.

‘What is to be done?’ said Fabricius, the extremity of distress breaking

down the repugnance and indignation with which he regarded his companion.

‘The luck seems against us,’ answered the Suburan bitterly; ‘he must have

played the rash fool. At any rate, your letter shows that I am to be

believed when I make you a statement. All we can do is to get there as

fast as we can and make the best of a bad job. In whatever plight the girl

may be, I can prove who she is, and you can have your fling at your

dutiful nephew.’

‘A poor consolation,’ muttered Fabricius; ‘but I cannot rest until I

fathom this strange story; were it for nothing but the sake of this

unfortunate Martialis I would seek admittance to Caesar, who is not

unknown to me personally. We will start before dawn—you will remain here

in the house until then.’

‘I have no wish to go elsewhere, if I may have some supper and a bed, for

I am tired out.’

Fabricius called Natta and handed over the Suburan to his care, but not

before the articles on the table were once more made up and locked away.

Later on the steward appeared to make his report, and was instructed to be

careful not to allow the visitor to slip away from the house. When,

however, he was further ordered to have everything in readiness for a long

and rapid journey southward, Natta, with the license of an old servant,

began to expostulate. Not daring to give him any reasons, his master cut

him short very peremptorily and dismissed him. The offended official had

scarcely been gone a minute before he returned, and handed a letter to his

master, with an air of injured dignity. Fabricius broke the sealed thread

which bound it, and read inside the following:—

‘From L. Martialis.—I have just arrived. Come to me at once, if

possible, for your sake and mine and another’s. The bearer will

conduct you. Erase this at once.’

‘My litter immediately—I go with the bearer of this,’ cried Fabricius with

sudden energy.

The steward prepared to open his mouth once more, but an angry stamp of

his master’s foot, and a flash of his eye stopped him—he hurried away.

Fabricius flung the tablets into the fire and sank trembling on to his

knees.

CHAPTER II.

Fabricius got into his curtained litter, and the youth, who was the bearer

of the summons, led the way across the Tiber to a tavern under Mount

Aventine, in the heart of the wharves and warehouses, of the teeming

haunts of sailors, and the thousands whose livelihood depended on the

ships and commerce which crowded the quays of the busy river.

Here, in an upper room, the old man was brought into the presence of one

whom he did not recognise; but when the stranger removed a peruke, and

reared himself upright, as Martialis, he hastened to embrace him with a

glad cry.

It will be needless to recount what passed between them during the two

hours they remained together; or to portray the emotion of Fabricius,

already much tried. He perceived that the narrative of the Centurion was

substantially the same as that he had heard from Cestus, so far as

regarded Neæra; and when he had exhausted his fond ingenuity of inquiry,

he put his hand into his bosom and solemnly drew out an article, which he

placed in the hand of his companion. It was an intaglio on cornelian, the

likeness of a woman’s face, graved with an exquisite art unapproached in

modern times. When Martialis saw it he started in surprise.

‘Is there a resemblance?—you start!’ cried Fabricius breathlessly.

‘So great, that I seem to trace Neæra herself in the face,’ replied the

young man; ‘and yet it cannot be herself—who, then?’

Fabricius was so overcome with extreme joy that he could not reply for

some moments. At last, in tremulous tones, he said, ‘It is her mother’s

picture—done before her marriage—not long before. If she be like this,

then I shall know the child, and so get my own again. O boy, what a

strange working of the gods is here! That I should lose my little maid,

and, after long years, you, the son of my old friend, should love her all

unknowingly.’

‘Nay, Fabricius, there is nothing strange in my loving her,’ returned

Martialis; ‘it was only wonderful that I should have met her, of all

women—having seen her and spoken to her, the rest followed infallibly.’

The old man smiled, and rose to go.

‘It grows late—to‐morrow I will start for Surrentum. I cannot travel as

rapidly as yourself, my Lucius, and, by the time you reach Capreae, I

shall have done no more than to have arrived at my journey’s end, though

with two days’ start.’

‘Farewell! Let not Cestus nor any one know of my presence,’ said the

Centurion.

Fabricius went away home, and on the morrow, though later than he had

given orders for, he set out on the southern road, with Cestus, Natta, and

a retinue of slaves.

Martialis, at the end of the second tedious day, went to receive the

answer to Caesar’s epistle, and, after securing it carefully, set out also

on his return.

On the second morning following this, about dawn, Zeno entered his cell in

the villa Neptune, and found him lying fast asleep on his bed. He went

away at once and reported the same to the Emperor, who himself proceeded

with little delay to visit the returned prisoner.

When he entered, the latter was still asleep, and received a shake on the

shoulder from the Imperial hand.

‘So, you have returned,’ said Tiberius, as Martialis leapt to his feet and

saluted; ‘the letter.’

Martialis ripped the cloth of his inner garment and took out the despatch.

Caesar stepped aside and broke the seal, and ran his eye briefly over the

contents.

‘Good!’ he said, with a brightened eye, as he rolled up the paper; ‘have

you succeeded in keeping yourself unrecognised?’

‘Perfectly well, Caesar, for anything I know to the contrary,’ replied

Martialis. ‘I entered and came away from the city at nightfall, and lodged

near the Porta Navalis, where there was small chance of

recognition—especially in my disguise.’

‘A savoury part to be lodged in, and, as you say, not often liable to the

visits of your comrades from the opposite side of the city. You have

carried out my commission perfectly well—what of your own business?’

‘So please you, Caesar, there is little doubt as to the identity of my

betrothed. It can be satisfactorily proved that she is the grandchild of

Fabricius, stolen from him when she was but a child.’

‘So much the better for you in every way—how do you propose to prove it?’

‘As soon as you wish. Fabricius has left Rome, and should be in Surrentum

ere now, with those who can give testimony.’

‘And does that testimony still incriminate the worthy nephew?’

‘It does.’

‘Ah!’ said Tiberius, with grim irony, ‘I am more and more interested. I

will send for the aged Fabricius and his friends, and administer this

matter myself. Where in the town is the old man to be found?’

‘He is to be found, or to be heard of, at the villa of his friend Asinius,

whom he proposed to visit.’

‘I foresee an interesting scene—no time must be lost,’ said Tiberius,

turning to the door.

‘And my betrothed, Caesar—is she well?’ said the lover.

‘For aught I know—they had my orders to tend her well. They would scarcely

disobey.’

CHAPTER III.

The following day had been fixed by Tiberius for the formal betrothal of

his daughter‐in‐law Livia to the Prefect; and with the intention of dining

and passing the night at the villa Neptune, so as to be in readiness for

the ceremony, the Imperial lady set out thitherwards, from her own palace,

attended by a numerous retinue. A special command had been received to

include the unhappy Neæra among the latter.

The past few days had wrought a change in her appearance. Her form had

wasted, and her face was thin and wan with excess of mental affliction.

Much as Martialis had suffered, she was even more overwhelmed at the

agonising sight of her lover and protector torn away by the soldiers, to

what, she concluded, would be an ignominious punishment, or perhaps death.

After a sleepless night of horror, she was transferred to the dwelling of

Livia, where she was well cared for. This important lady was verging

toward middle age; was of somewhat masculine appearance, and as haughty

and full of ambition as her intended husband. But, being duly acquainted

with Neæra’s story, even her proud nature could not help unbending with

pity. The girl’s beauty also impressed her, and she placed her in

attendance on herself, and caused her to lay aside her poor homely

garments for more suitable apparel.

The Prefect, when he came, was curious to see her and bent admiring eyes

on her. ‘It is no wonder Martialis should dare so much,’ he said

gallantly, not to say grandiloquently, after his fashion before women. ‘He

is the best of my Centurions—but have courage; I will put this matter

straight. He is something to me as well as to you. They have penned him

up, but I will have him at liberty ere long. He knows you are safe, so

take heart.’

With a mind dazed and only half‐conscious through suffering, Neæra was

thankful for the encouraging words of this personage, whom she surmised to

be some one of high position. When she fell back to where the group of

attendants were standing, one of them whispered to her that it was the

Prefect who had spoken to her. A great load fell from her thankful heart

at the words. She gazed back with something like awe at the most feared

and powerful man at that moment in the empire. From Martialis she had

learned much, from time to time, concerning him; and the assurance, coming

from the mighty personage’s own lips, changed at once her agony into hope.

Another sorrow haunted her with an intensity of suspense. Her father—where

was he? Was he sick or dying as she had been told? A mysterious dread of

ill weighed upon her. The details of her own rough and forcible abduction

could not fail but impress her mind with a sense of some evil‐doing, so,

at the first opportunity, she began her efforts to obtain information

respecting the potter. Those whom she asked either denied all knowledge of

him or gave evasive answers. In one or two cases, her strong suspicions

were aroused that actual knowledge was not wanting, by the hesitating

manner in which a negative answer was made. More than ever alarmed by the

confused and embarrassed manner of those who seemed to falter before her

earnest gaze, her acute anxiety at length emboldened her to speak to Livia

herself. The lady received the application condescendingly, and promised

that inquiries should be made at the palace. Later on the same day she

summoned Neæra and made known to her the fact of the potter’s death. He

had been taken ill with a sudden and strange sickness, and had only lived

a few hours afterward. Such were the fatal words which fell on the

stricken girl’s ears, and, after the first gust of wild grief had passed

away, a brooding melancholy possessed her. Her lover was a close prisoner,

whose fate hung on the whim of Caesar. The gentle, simple‐minded, sweet‐

natured potter, whom she had filially loved and revered with all the

strength of her nature, being also reft from her, no wonder the burden of

her sorrow sapped the beauty swiftly from her face, leaving hollow eyes

and thin cheeks. She knew that Martialis had been removed to the villa

Neptune, and, by the last report, was still there, so, when she received

intimation to accompany Livia thither, her heart bounded and her eyes

brightened. The journey itself, and the melancholy satisfaction that at

each step she was nigher to her lover, did something to restore more

colour to her cheek and vivacity to her manner. But what was her

unutterable delight, when no other than Zeno, the steward, appeared before

her, not long after her arrival, and led her away into a room where she

saw Tibia waiting alone to receive her. With an indescribable cry of

thankfulness and relief she sprang forward, and the two women were locked

in each other’s fast embrace. Neæra was shocked to see the ravages which

affliction had wrought in her mother’s appearance, and the heartbroken

widow, on her part, scanned the pale face of her fosterchild with

tenderness and pity. When Neæra had related her experiences, since she had

been taken away from her home, she led Tibia on gently, in her turn, to

speak of herself, and of him they had so looked up to, and reverenced. But

as the dame came at length to mention her husband, her voice broke down at

the word, and she got no further. They said no more—all that was in their

hearts was merged in silent weeping. The wonder of Neæra was no less than

her joy at the presence of the dame in the island, but the latter seemed

loth to give any explanation thereof, and tried to turn from the subject

as often as it was put.

Neæra, at last, pressed the matter in an unavoidable manner. ‘Mother,’ she

said, ‘you have not yet told me how you contrived to get here. Did they

bring you away as they brought me? Or did you come of your own accord to

seek me? It was strange if you were able to enter here alone.’

‘No—I came with others,’ said Tibia. ‘You shall know everything.’ She

stopped and turned her eyes to the floor, and her breast began to heave

with emotion.

A dull, chill horror sank into Neæra’s heart. Her mind was prone to fear,

being overcharged and susceptible through long and dark brooding.

‘Speak!’ she whispered. ‘What new trouble is this? Tell me—I can bear it.’

The old woman glanced up into the girl’s face, and, divining the signs of

terror which dwelt there, took her hand caressingly.

‘It is no new trouble, thank the gods,’ she faltered. ‘We have had plenty

of that. Nay, I must call it rather happiness——’

‘Ah, I thought you were about to tell me something terrible of Lucius,’

murmured Neæra, drawing a deep breath, as a great load, like the shadow of

death, slid from her mind.

‘No! It is of yourself. It is time you must know all,’ said Tibia. ‘Child,

you must never call me mother any more.’

It hardly needs to tell the start of surprise which Neæra gave at these

words. Through her amazement, the strange wistfulness of the dame’s glance

and her broken, pathetic tones struck to her heart. She threw her arms

around her aged neck.

‘What is it you are saying?’ she cried. ‘Why do you look like that? What

is it I am to know? Am I to lose mother as well? Mother you are, and

always must be.’

For some moments Tibia remained in silence within the arms of the young

girl, as if unable to force herself from the warmth of what might be the

last heartfelt, daughterlike caress. Then at length she slowly uplifted

the shapely arms, and, as she did so, pressed one hand of the girl to her

lips, whilst the tears trickled down from her eyes.

‘Neæra,’ she said, ‘I have lost my husband, and now the gods will that you

shall be taken from me. I have tended you, watched you, and loved you like

a mother; but—but, Neæra, we never thought the time would come, nor yet

the need to tell you that—that you are not our child. For I have been a

barren stock—I never bore a child into the world.’

They sat looking at each other. Tibia, with a pleading, timid expression

in her meek eyes, which the tender‐hearted girl could not withstand,

despite her speechless incredulity and wonder. She thought for the moment

that the dame’s sufferings had, perhaps, deranged her faculties, and then,

as with a sudden and swift ray of light, her mind recalled one or two

circumstances which had puzzled her strangely hitherto. She remembered on

that day just as Cestus first appeared in the workshop at home, when

addressing the potter as father, he replied in the negative with all the

evidences of powerful emotion. Nothing had been ever added in explanation,

and the hasty disavowal of relationship had presently sunk out of active

speculation beneath other matters, and had been thought of no more. Again,

the frantic words of Martialis, as he was hurried away from the presence

of Caesar, had been wild and inexplicable to her ears at the moment of

their utterance, but, in the agony of her thoughts, they had also fallen

unheeded. What did it all mean?

‘I—not your child, mother,’ she said slowly. ‘Do you know what you are

saying? You are forgetting—alas, this cruel trouble—it has been too much

for you to bear!’

‘I know what you mean, child, but it is not so,’ returned Tibia, in a low

voice; ‘it is true, indeed, I never was a mother. You were brought to us a

little thing—a very little thing—by Cestus, my brother, for safe‐keeping.

We never saw or heard of him again till this present visit. We thought he

must be dead, and that you, therefore, would never be claimed; so we

looked upon you as our own, and never allowed you to know otherwise. What

else could we have done? He told us you were an orphan—a poor man’s

child—without kith or kin. Now he has come to claim you. Your grandfather

is here now in this great house. He is neither poor nor mean. He is a

great and wealthy nobleman, and you a great lady. Alas, we did not

know—Cestus has done a wicked thing; but idle and evil he ever was from a

boy in our father’s cottage.’

Neæra sat silent and motionless, listening as in a dream. The blood surged

like a fiery flood through her veins, and then fled back as suddenly,

leaving her cold and pale as death. Her mind was in a whirl, and her ideas

were helplessly tossing in a hurly‐burly of confusion. It was pardonable,

in the first moments of strange wonder, that her wild but vivid thoughts

flew to the future. Reared amid humble associations, what a new world of

hopes, ideas, and curiosity flooded her dizzying brain with sensations

here indescribable. Masthlion not her father—nor Tibia her mother! Her

grandfather a stranger, awaiting her even now—a noble! She was afraid

already. What did it all mean? and why had she been thus treated? Now she

thought she saw the reason of the unhappy restraint and mysterious trouble

which had clouded their home during the sojourn of Cestus. She had been

right in ascribing it in some way to his influence. She turned her eyes on

Tibia, who was watching her in deep suspense. There, at least, was her

mother in heart and deed, and she opened her arms to her.

‘Mother, I am bewildered! How came I to be with you my life long, if I am,

as you say, the child of another—the child of great and wealthy people?

Ah, but that you have told me this strange thing I could scarce believe

it.’

Tibia received her with a grateful heart, and held her close while she

told her the whole story.

‘It was a wicked deed that Cestus did, but he was tempted by one worse

than himself,’ said she, concluding; ‘evil he was without doubt, but, to

my mind, your kinsman was more to blame, for it was he who planned it. You

were nothing to my poor brother till he was tempted with gold. Ah, child,

do not be too hard upon him. If he did you and yours bitter wrong,

remember that he preserved you when he was paid to take your life.’

‘And this kinsman—who is he, and is he alive?’ asked Neæra, in a hushed

voice.

‘I do not know—he may, or may not be. We are here for your grandsire to

claim you, and you will soon know everything. When you go to Rome to live

among the great people there, will you remember the poor cottage that was

your home so long?’

‘Go where I may you must still be with me,’ replied Neæra; ‘how could I

forget? I was happy—oh, my poor father, if he had only lived!’

The tears of both began to flow again, and, for a long time, they remained

silent and occupied with their own thoughts.

They were roused by the entrance of Zeno, who summoned them to follow him.

Neæra drew a sharp breath, and trembled with nervous expectation as she

stood up to obey.

‘Keep near me, mother,’ she whispered, as she clutched the dame’s hand

tightly; ‘and yet, for the sake of Lucius, ought I not to be glad?’

The apartment into which they were brought was tolerably well filled with

company. Tiberius sat on a slightly raised seat, and, in a lower chair, at

one side, was seated his daughter‐in‐law Livia. Sejanus was at her side,

whilst conversing in knots, at a respectful distance, were others of the

court. Flaccus, Priscus, Marinus, Atticus, the devoted friends of the

Emperor, were there, as well as Afer and two or three other followers of

the Prefect. Caesar himself was speaking in a low tone with Thrasullus,

the astrologer, who stood at his elbow; next to whom was Seleucus, another

philosopher, buried in deep reflection. Behind the Imperial chair was, as

usual, the gigantic Nubian, and still further in rear, other slaves in

waiting, including the females in attendance on Livia. Neæra and the dame,

marshalled by Zeno, entered the presence with hesitating steps, and halted

near the door—Tibia, with the abashed feelings of her humble timid nature,

and the maiden, with an agitation which the circumstances of her position

rendered positively painful. She clung tenaciously to the hand of the dame

as she ran her eyes hastily over the company. She was even comforted to

observe Livia present, and her heart throbbed violently as she cast

fugitive glances upon each gray head, in vain wonder as to the identity of

her aged relative.

At Caesar’s sign the steward brought them forward in front of his chair.

In the hollow of his left hand, Tiberius held the same intaglio which

Fabricius had shown to Martialis, in the tavern under the Aventine. He

studied it, in conjunction with the face of the maiden before him, with

close attention, and then, without a word, handed it to Thrasullus. The

philosopher, after a rapid comparison, returned it to the Imperial hand,

giving a significant nod. Tiberius raised his voice and called to Afer,

who immediately broke off his conversation and approached.

‘Hither—I want your opinion,’ said the Emperor, holding out the intaglio;

‘cast your eyes on this graven stone, and thence on the face of this

maiden before us, and tell me if you perceive any resemblance.’

The rest of the company edged nearer with curiosity.

Afer took the likeness, and, as he did so, bent his gaze on Neæra’s

beautiful face, with the same supercilious smile, which had proved so

offensive to her in Masthlion’s shop. She recognised him readily, and

coloured with displeasure, as she haughtily reared her head, and averted

her eyes.

‘Have you met before?’ asked Tiberius, closely watching them.

‘Yes, Caesar, to the best of my memory,’ returned the knight, removing his

eyes from her face and turning them to the miniature for the first time.

He gave an almost imperceptible movement of surprise, and his brows

knitted closely over his hooked nose, as he gazed at the portrait in his

hand.

‘Where then was the meeting?’ asked Caesar.

‘In Surrentum—if I mistake not, in a potter’s shop. But she is better

known, I believe, to the Centurion Martialis,’ replied Afer, with the

unfailing curl of his lip, half smile and half sneer.

There was a gentle titter; the face of the young girl became crimson, and

she dropped her head. Tibia, despite her timidity, cast an indignant

glance at the speaker and those smiling around, as she drew the maiden

nearer to her.

‘It may be so, but I wait your opinion with regard to the resemblance

which seemed to strike me,’ said Tiberius; ‘you also appear to be very

strongly impressed with the likeness, Afer.’

‘In truth, I confess I am,’ returned the knight, as his eyes returned

again to the cornelian with a puzzled air; ‘I admit there is a strong

likeness, especially in the eyes and mouth, though this is taken from a

woman somewhat older. I seem to know the face, and yet——’

‘Doubtless you do, for it belongs to a relative of your own,’ said

Tiberius. ‘He has honoured us with a visit, and here he is.’

All eyes followed the glance of Caesar, and saw Fabricius, followed by

Natta and an elderly fellow‐servant, appear through the curtains which

covered the entrance of an inner room.

The old senator came forward with an erect body and firm step. His face

was very pale and stern, and, as he advanced with a measured step, he kept

his eyes persistently fixed upon the persons of Tiberius and his

granddaughter, to the determined exclusion of every one else.

Afer was transfixed with amazement, and barely saved himself from uttering

an exclamation. Had his house on the Esquiline suddenly planted itself

before him, his face could scarcely have shown more unrestrained surprise.

‘Welcome, noble Fabricius,’ said Tiberius, as the old man made a deep

obeisance before him and Livia; ‘welcome to Capreae—we are busy in this

affair of yours. Your worthy nephew looks dumfounded at seeing you.’

‘Uncle!’ cried the wondering voice of Afer, now released by the words of

Caesar; ‘you here! This is strange!’

The knight took a step or two forward, and then hesitated. The old man

gave him not the least sign of acknowledgment, but, raising his glance for

the first time, met the lustrous eyes of Neæra fixed upon him, with a

world of anxiety in their depths. The occasional deep heaves of her bosom

showed that she was holding her breath in her agitation, and the burning

gaze of Fabricius seemed to pierce her with its intensity. He placed one

hand over his heart, and a flush covered his wan face. Another moment he

looked, and then stretched forth his arms toward her with a strange cry—

‘Aurelia—my Aurelia! My child!’

The poignant accents and the unaccustomed name thrilled through her with

indescribable sensations. With no less power, but in a different way, the

old man’s words startled his nephew as with an electrical shock. Reaching

his uncle’s side at a stride, he grasped his arm, and said sternly, and

almost fiercely, ‘What is this, uncle? Is this folly still so strong

within you? How came you here in the name of the gods? and in what does

this wench concern you? Do you thus accost every girl you see? She is

nothing but a potter’s girl of Surrentum.’

‘Stay, Fabricius, you are hasty,’ spoke Tiberius; ‘let us hear what these

people have to say.’

Recalled to himself, Fabricius, with his eyes yet fixed on Neæra, stepped

back to a place beside Thrasullus, without deigning his nephew a look or a

word. Afer’s brows met with an angry scowl, and he abruptly folded his

arms across his breast, whilst muttering some hasty wrathful words. Every

one looked curiously on, and, in the momentary silence which suddenly

ensued, the voice of Natta was heard, in an eager undertone, speaking to

his fellow‐servant. Urged by their keen interest the pair had pressed

forward beyond their proper station, and were peering through the circle

of their superiors at Neæra. The old steward’s demeanour was excited, but

at the impatient sign of his master he and his companion fell back to

their proper station.

‘Noble Fabricius here, a Senator of Augustus, well known to us of old

days,’ said Tiberius, ‘lost a grandchild years ago. Unable to trace her,

in spite of every effort, he yet preserves hope. The likeness which you

have seen is that of the mother of the lost child. Fabricius has at last,

he thinks, fair grounds for supposing he has recovered the missing girl.

Be it our business to inquire into the proofs.’

‘To what purpose, uncle?’ said Afer, with angry impatience. ‘Is it not

absurd to ground a belief upon a mere resemblance to a graven gem? It can

only end in fruitless disgust, as hitherto. Cease to harass yourself any

longer by pursuing an _ignis fatuus_; be guided by me, I pray you. Leave

these impostors to me, as you were wont, and I will unmask them.’

‘I pray you, Caesar, proceed,’ said Fabricius briefly, without taking any

notice of his nephew.

With an expression of unutterable disgust and anger, the knight fell back

a pace or two. ‘With your permission, Caesar, I will retire,’ he said; ‘I

cannot listen to this folly.’

‘It is my will that you remain; try, therefore, and endure what shall

follow,’ replied Tiberius.

‘I must obey your wish,’ said Afer, biting his lip.

‘Woman!’ said Tiberius, addressing himself to Tibia, ‘tell us your name

and where you dwell. Speak without fear.’

‘My name is Tibia, and I dwell in Surrentum,’ answered the dame. She began

in low nervous tones, and then gathering courage from the conviction of

her deep injuries, she proceeded more hurriedly in a louder tone, ‘My home

has, however, been ruined, and my husband Masthlion——’

‘Enough!’ interrupted the Emperor, in a harsh, sudden voice; ‘answer only

the questions you are asked. Anything beyond them concerns us nothing. You

are now a widow—let that suffice. How long have you dwelt in Surrentum?’

‘About twenty years.’

‘And is this girl the child of you and your husband?’

‘No; we never had a child.’

‘How then did you come by her?’

‘My brother brought her to us to foster, when she was a little child,

about fifteen years ago.’

‘Was she his child?’

‘No. He said she was an orphan—the child of a fellow‐workman in Rome.’

Afer shrugged his shoulders, and glanced toward Fabricius, who was gazing

intently and unmoved upon the females.

‘Has she remained with you ever since?’

‘Yes.’

‘Have you always led her to believe she was really your own child? Did she

never discover that she did not belong to you?’

‘She was never told till a few minutes past in this house.’

‘Did you never know of this before, maiden?’

‘No.’

‘Did your brother never visit her, woman?’

‘We never saw him again until a few weeks back. We thought he must be

dead, never having even heard of him.’

‘You then thought of the child as your own?’

‘We never thought she would be taken from us again, and we looked upon her

as our own.’

‘What brought your brother back again after so long a silence?’

‘He had had a bad illness in Rome, and he came to Surrentum for change and

fresh air to help him to get better.’

‘Why did he not come to see the child, or at least send to learn of her

welfare during all those years?’

‘I cannot tell. He said he knew she was in good keeping.’

‘And did not you or your husband ever think proper to communicate with

this brother of yours respecting the child he had left in your charge,

since he himself was so careless of her?’

‘Not until a few weeks ago, when my husband went to Rome to seek him, but

never found a trace of him.’

‘Why did he go, then, at last?’

‘It was when she was asked in marriage,’ said Tibia, with hesitation. ‘My

husband thought it was his duty to tell my brother, but he could not find

a trace of him.’

‘Then after this your brother arrived at Surrentum of his own accord?’

‘Yes; he was weak and thin.’

‘Did he give you no account of himself for the time he had been silent?’

‘No.’

‘Did he tell you anything further concerning the girl?’

The dame’s head sank gradually.

‘Speak, good woman,’ said Fabricius; ‘no harm shall come of it.’

‘He said,’ Tibia continued, in a low voice, ‘that he told a lie when he

came first with the child. She was not the child of a fellow‐workman, but

was nobly born, and had been stolen.’

‘Of course,’ said Afer ironically.

‘From whom, then, did he say she had been taken?’

‘From one called Balbus, a wealthy man; but he said this to deceive us—I

know now there is no such person.’

‘You say you have dwelt in Surrentum twenty years, being about five years

before the child was brought to you. Can you produce any people of the

town who can testify that you have been childless, and that she came as

you relate?’

Tibia did not answer, but looked at Fabricius.

‘I have seen several such townspeople very privately, Caesar,’ said

Fabricius, ‘and, from the evidence I gathered, I am perfectly satisfied

that this worthy woman speaks absolute truth.’

‘Enough, then, for that,’ said Tiberius; and he turned to exchange some

whispered words with Thrasullus.

‘We will now hear your brother’s story,’ he resumed. ‘Zeno, bring him in

before us.’

Fabricius slowly removed his eyes from the fair face of Neæra and turned

them on his nephew, who stood with an impatient, scornful expression of

face, gazing fixedly on the dame.

The ring of bystanders parted, and Cestus walked into their midst with a

bold, not to say triumphant air. His face had recovered its normal habit.

When matters arrived at a crisis with the sudden departure of Neæra, there

was left no occasion for secrecy. But rather the reverse since his

interview with Fabricius, so that the dye had been suffered to fade from

his skin, and the razor had removed his bristly beard and moustache.

He made an awkward obeisance to Caesar, and then turned to his former

patron. The moment for revenge, so long waited and thirsted for, had at

last arrived, and his broad, coarse face gleamed with diabolical

exultation and malignance.

His significant gaze directed the eyes of the rest toward the unhappy

knight, whose demeanour had suffered a change which was as extraordinary

as it was sudden. He seemed as if an icy, deathlike hand had seized upon

his heart and turned him to stone. His fixed eyes were glassy, and his

face drawn and ghastly white.

‘Good morrow, patron,’ said Cestus, with a fiendish grin; ‘you thought you

had paid me off in full the last time we were together, but here I am

again, and, like a good client, still devoted to your affairs.’

His voice seemed to break a horrible fascination. Afer recovered himself,

and drew a long silent breath as he glanced around. Fabricius had seen

enough in his heart‐stricken nephew’s face, and was now again sternly

avoiding his gaze. A dull, sickly dread numbed the heart of the knight and

whispered fatefully in his ear. But extremity of peril nerved him with the

courage and coolness of despair, and, collecting his faculties, he stood

at bay, in readiness for the ominous storm which threatened him.

Withdrawing his attention from Afer, the Emperor devoted a few moments’

scrutiny to the Suburan.

‘Is this the brother you speak of, woman?’ he asked of Tibia.

‘Yes.’

‘Do you claim the kinship, fellow? Are you her brother?’

‘Yes, so please you, I am her brother.’

‘Your name?’

‘Cestus.’

‘And dwelling?’

‘In Rome—in the Subura.’

‘From the Subura—you have that appearance. From one of the darkest holes

therein.’

‘There are some powerful and wealthy people in the Subura, Caesar, and we

cannot all choose the best spots therein.’

‘Bandy no words. Do you know the maiden there by you?’

‘Yes—no one better. She is the granddaughter of the noble Fabricius

there.’

‘How, then, came she to be living as the child of the woman your sister?’

‘I took her secretly away from the mansion of her grandsire fifteen years

ago, all but three months less a day. I have kept the reckoning

carefully—ask the noble Fabricius if I am not right.’

‘He has already told me this—he speaks truly, to the very day,’ said

Fabricius.

‘Are you not afraid to confess this villainy?’ said Tiberius sternly.

‘It is because I wish to make the noble Fabricius some amends for the

wrong, and for another reason, which all will soon understand.’

‘Why did you tell the woman, your sister, that you took her from one

Balbus, a wealthy man?’

‘Because I did not choose to let out my secret and mention names—the time

was not ripe then to bring the matter forward, and I was afraid it might

be meddled with, and harm done instead of good. There was no such person

as Balbus.’

‘What do you mean by the time being not ripe? Had you seen or heard of her

since you first left her in Surrentum?’

‘Not once.’

‘It may be concluded from that you cared nothing whether she were alive or

dead during all that time—is that so?’

‘Not so much as to take me to Surrentum to find out, I confess.’

‘Then why, after all that long silence, did you resolve to go to

Surrentum! Say, what was your reason in stealing the child and hiding it

away for fifteen years in order to restore it again?’

‘So please you, Caesar, the child was no more to me than any other, but

she was of great importance to my patron, and he bargained and paid me

seventy sestertia to secretly kill it. I was too soft‐hearted to make away

with it altogether, so I took it to Surrentum quietly and unknown to him,

and there she has remained till now, as you see.’

‘And who is this patron?’

‘He stands there before you—Titus Afer.’

‘It’s a lie—a damnable lie!’ shouted the knight. ‘Dog! vagabond! whoever

thou art, how darest thou say such a thing?’

His black eyes blazed amid the deathly pallor of his face, and a thrill of

astonishment passed through the bystanders. Even Livia leaned forward in

her seat with rapt attention.

‘Have a care,’ quoth Cestus, shrinking back, ‘or he will knife me again,

as he did before.’

‘Command yourself, Afer,’ said Tiberius drily; ‘you shall have plenty of

opportunity to reply.’

‘Am I to be traduced by such a villain, whom I never saw before? And in

the face of these present? Do you, Fabricius, my uncle, whom I have served

and loved as a son so long—do you countenance it in silence thus? Oh,

monstrous! To be so gulled by a cunning knave after all that has been

practised on you in the same fashion, and thus calmly to listen to such an

outrage on your own flesh and blood—shame!’

‘Caesar has said you will have an opportunity, at a proper time, of

disproving what this man says. Let us proceed and seek for the truth, and

woe upon the evildoer,’ said Fabricius in hollow tones.

‘Ay, indeed, woe upon him,’ said Afer loudly.

‘Have you, then, cast me off, patron? Do you disown me after all my

services?’ observed Cestus, with a grin.

‘No more of that, Suburan,’ cried Tiberius. ‘It is a grave charge to make

against one of the rank and family of Titus Afer. Beware, if it be an idle

piece of mischief.’

‘It’s nothing but sober truth, Caesar.’

‘Lying, cunning knave!’ hissed the knight.

‘It is easily explained,’ continued Cestus, with a rough laugh; ‘the noble

Fabricius is vastly rich and his nephew wanted it all to himself—the girl

was in the way.’

‘Execrable wretch!’ cried Afer, beside himself with terror and fury. He

made a spring towards the Suburan, but those near him clung to his

garments and arrested the movement. The Suburan, on his part, bounced back

precipitately, and then seeing the knight’s advance stayed, broke out into

a jeering, but, at the same time, nervous laugh.

‘Peace, I say again, Afer,’ said Tiberius more sternly; ‘the justness of

your cause can surely well await until the end. Go on, Suburan, and relate

the whole of your story of this affair. Add nothing, omit nothing, and be

as brief as possible.’

Cestus did as he was required, and revealed the full extent of his

relations with the knight, on whose pallid brow the perspiration gathered

in drops with the violence of his emotions.

Step by step the pitiless tale went on, laying bare, with extreme

minuteness, the whole history of the connection between noble and vagabond

from its commencement. Nothing was omitted down to the last violent

meeting by the Circus Maximus. Thence, in conclusion, the Suburan ran over

the occurrences which we have already described.

‘And that is everything, Caesar,’ he said, when he had finished. ‘Every

word I have said is truth—I swear it, by all the gods. If it were a lie,

should I have been fool enough to have made myself out to be the thief?

No, it is when thieves fall out that honest men get their own. I don’t

seek to hide myself—not I; but for the man’s sake, who tempted me and

hired me, I have made a clean breast of it and exposed myself. He paid me

at last with a dagger thrust, like a false‐hearted coward as he is, and

now I’m even with him. See, here is the place—look at it for yourselves,

and believe your own eyes!’

He hastily withdrew his tunic sufficiently to disclose the recently‐healed

scar in his left side, where Afer had struck his desperate blow.

‘Lying knave, this is some slash received in a drunken night‐brawl in a

Suburan stye, if it be there you dwell! The whole story is a fable, a

cursed lie,’ broke in Afer again, whose aspect was ghastly to behold. ‘I

know him not! Is this a return for my love, uncle? Shame that you should

suffer it!’

‘Patience!’ said Tiberius, ‘let us finish. Fabricius, you have heard him

confess that he decoyed you from your house, on a certain night, with a

false tale about a comrade who was sick, and wished to see you, concerning

your lost granddaughter—is it true, and do you recognise him?’

‘It is true enough,’ replied Fabricius, whose horror‐stricken feelings

were displayed distressingly in his voice and demeanour; ‘I seemed to

remember his face again, and a thousand times, from Rome hither, have I

tried to bring him more exactly to my mind. But now, as he related the

occurrence, I recognised him—yes, it is the same wretch who came to me

that night. His description of what occurred is perfect—it is too well

graven on my mind. But for the timely appearance of the troop of

Pretorians with Martialis the Centurion, the wretch would have succeeded

only too well in his evil intent. This new infamy comes unexpectedly on

me, Caesar, and it tries me hard——’

‘Wine, and a seat for Fabricius,’ said Tiberius; and the attendants flew

to obey.

‘Am I to bear this? Am I to listen to this’—broke in Afer.

‘Peace, I say,’ said Tiberius; ‘drink and rest, Fabricius.’

The old senator drank the wine the attendants brought for him, and sank

with trembling limbs into the chair they placed for him.

‘If what you have told us is true, Suburan,—and it is scarcely credible

you would invent a tale to incriminate yourself to such a degree,—then

your actions bring you within the reach of the rods of the lictors, and of

the cord,’ resumed Tiberius, ‘but due attention shall be given to this at

a proper time. What concerns us now is the identity of the child. Give us,

therefore, the proofs that she is what you assert her to be.’

‘I have, already, given them to the noble Fabricius, so please you,’ said

Cestus.

‘My slave bears them—bring them hither, Natta!’ said Fabricius.

The steward came forward before Caesar with the package of child’s

garments, and displayed them to Tiberius on bended knee, whilst Fabricius

attested them—particularly the amulet.

‘Come hither, woman,’ said Tiberius to Tibia; ‘do you know these things?’

‘They are what the child wore when she came to us—we took them off and

kept them.’

‘They are not the dress of a poor man’s child. Did such a thought not

strike you when you saw them at first.’

‘Yes; I asked him how she came by them, and he said her father had been

very poor, so poor that a rich family had befriended him out of charity,

and had dressed her in some cast‐off clothes.’

‘That’s true! I told her so,’ said Cestus.

‘The memory of a liar should always be good,’ cried Afer; ‘this vagabond’s

memory is only equalled by his lies—they are all of a prodigious nature.

Yet I doubt if they are as monstrous as the credulity which sucks them

in.’

‘What more remains to ask these people, Fabricius? Question them if you

will,’ said Tiberius.

‘I have nothing to add to what your highness has ably said,’ replied

Fabricius, rising from his seat. ‘I have already satisfied myself, by

inquiries in Surrentum, that this woman is worthy, honest, and estimable

in the opinion of the townspeople, and that her husband was likewise

esteemed for the same qualities. Her word, therefore, is to be trusted,

and it bears out the assertions of her misguided brother. I will tell you

that some weeks ago I received a letter, saying that my grandchild was

alive, and enclosing a piece of ribbon, which lies there before you. It is

of unusual pattern. I went to the child’s room, and there found some more

of the self‐same fabric. I had been imposed upon many times, but this was

the first news I had heard, which seemed to strike to my heart with the

weight of conviction. It was like a message from the grave. I was deeply

moved. A few nights ago this man appeared before me in my house, and

related what you have heard, with the exception of the vile trick by which

my own life was attempted. He brought these things as proofs of his words.

I can find no flaws in his evidence, and I accept it. So please you,

Caesar, here are two slaves of my household who served the mother and

grandmother of this child. The memory of the mother should be strong

within them. Let them say. Look upon this maiden, Natta and Verrus, and

answer truly, as your hearts tell you, if she recall the image of the dead

Fabricia, my daughter, your mistress.’

‘We have already looked upon her, master,’ replied Natta for both. ‘She is

too near alike not to be the child of the dead Fabricia.’

‘We are all agreed as to the marked resemblance to the gem,’ observed

Caesar.

‘I am satisfied; my heart—everything tells me she is my Aurelia,’ said

Fabricius fervently.

‘Then it becomes Afer’s turn, for which he burns, to refute the charge

which has been brought against him,’ Tiberius continued.

All eyes turned now upon the white, haggard visage of the knight, as he

stood with tightly‐folded arms and compressed lips.

‘I will be brief. I deny it all—it is an infamous lie, invented to impose

upon a credulous old man,’ said he. ‘You have taken an unfair advantage;

it would have been, at least, manly to have warned me. You have your

witnesses gathered, and paid to brazen it out. Once concoct a tale, and

the rest is easily arranged. Now, however, I hear of this for the first

time. I have nothing to defend me but my bare word. Who am I to find in

this island to support me, when even my uncle will not turn an ear to me?

Long and bitter experience cannot cure his credulity. He swallows a

plausible tale now as eagerly as formerly, when the child was first

missing—only, with the difference, that in his present delusion he has no

scruple in allowing suspicions to be raised of his own flesh and blood.’

‘I have not spoken one word to you, much less made a charge against you,

though, like yourself, I have listened to one. Your conclusions are hasty,

therefore,’ said Fabricius sternly; ‘you are under no restraint; you will

be at liberty to gather what witnesses you may, and do anything you can to

disprove what has been said. No one will be more pleased than myself to

know of your success. I do not condemn on the word of one man; at the same

time, it is incumbent on you to refute him. It is a grave charge.’

‘And too true to be upset, is it not, patron?’ remarked Cestus coarsely.

‘Your lips are glib enough as ever, but your false, cowardly heart is

shrivelled within you, at this moment, for fear, I know right well.’

‘Silence, vagabond!’ cried Tiberius; ‘Afer, you have been taken unawares

it is true; but, as you declare yourself innocent, you need feel no

concern on the score of this charge.’

‘I do not know,’ replied Afer scornfully; ‘too often the innocent

suffer—especially, when it is in the interest and inclination of some one

that they should be the scapegoat. My worthy uncle lost his grandchild,

and now resolves to replace her at all hazards. By a perfectly natural

hallucination, he persuades himself that he sees her in the person of the

potter’s girl; whatever consequences follow matters nothing to him.’

‘There shall be no suffering of the innocent, or of any one, in this sad

matter, except by the pangs of self‐accusing conscience,’ said Fabricius;

‘it remains with yourself to disprove the charge or not. If you do not,

you know as well as I what judgment will be meted out to you, though you

still walk at liberty. I am satisfied, for my part, with the recovery of

my child; deal with the rest, which concerns you, as you will.’

‘You are too liberal and slack of dealing, noble Fabricius,’ said

Tiberius: ‘it would be better for all concerned to unravel the matter

completely.’

‘It touches my nephew’s honour—I leave it in his hands,’ replied

Fabricius.

‘Be it so. But yet a word or two more, Afer,’ observed Tiberius; ‘turn to

this ruffian of the Subura once more. He has given a very minute

description of an alleged acquaintance with you lasting over many years.

Is it possible that you do not know him?’

‘No—save for a lying scoundrel,’ returned Afer; ‘but of what avail is my

word?’

‘He must then be a scoundrel of exceptional ingenuity and imagination.

What say you to this, Suburan?’

‘Why, it is easy enough for him to say that in this place,’ replied

Cestus, with a laugh; ‘but in the city he would not dare. He is but

plunging himself deeper into the mud when he denies me. It is not a simple

thing to throw off altogether a friendship of eighteen years!’

‘Friendship!—execrable villain,’ hissed the knight.

‘As you please, patron; you were always fertile in pretty names,’ retorted

the other, shrugging his shoulders.

‘It must be just as easy for you to prove the existence of eighteen years’

connection,’ said Tiberius.

‘Ay, in the city, where plenty of people could be found to help me; but

here—stop! will you send for his slave, a Greek lad named Erotion?’

Afer started. These unlooked‐for words shot a thrill of terror to his

heart and roused him to desperation.

‘He shall not come,’ he cried fiercely. ‘You will terrify him into bearing

false witness against me. You are banded against me. I claim a suitable

delay, until I can reach Rome, to gather evidence against this

conspiracy.’

‘You are unreasonably moved, Afer; we may as well listen to what your

slave has now to say as to wait longer. It cannot make any possible

difference to you, whether he speak the truth now or then,’ remarked

Caesar grimly. ‘Bring the slave hither, if he be in the palace.’

Zeno knew that he was close at hand and went to fetch him. In the few

moments’ interval the strained attention of the company relaxed into a low

murmur of conversation. Caesar sat with his cheek on his hand and his eyes

fixed on no one in particular. The Prefect stole round to the side of his

friend Afer and whispered, ‘What is all this, Afer?’

‘You have heard, like me, for the first time, Prefect,’ replied the other,

‘the conspiracy of a rogue.’

‘A clever rogue, by Hercules,’ observed the other, and at that moment Zeno

re‐entered with the young Greek Erotion.

‘Come hither into the midst,’ said Caesar.

Erotion, with a look of mingled astonishment and alarm, cast an uneasy

glance around, whilst bethinking himself of any misdeed which was about to

be visited upon him. He came forward into the middle and betrayed

unmistakable surprise at seeing Cestus. His master’s eyes were, moreover,

fixed on him with a peculiar, meaning expression which he failed to

interpret, and which tended to further embarrass him.

‘Are you the slave of Domitius Afer, called Erotion?’ demanded Caesar.

‘I am.’

‘Stand forward a step, Suburan. Now, slave, look at that man and say

whether you know him.’

The young slave’s eyes instinctively turned a fleeting sidelong glance at

Afer ere he complied, whereupon Tiberius peremptorily bade him turn his

back on his master.

‘Look upon no one but him I have pointed out to you; speak truly and fear

not. If you speak false, Caesar has the means of discovering it, and then

woe upon you. Do you know him?’

‘Yes,’ was the trembling reply.

‘His name?’

‘Cestus.’

‘Where and when have you seen him?’

‘In Rome, in various places.’

‘Where did you see him first?’

‘In the Subura, I think.’

‘What took you there?’

‘I bore a message from my master.’

‘To this man?’

‘Yes.’

‘Do you remember that message?’

‘It was a command for him to meet my master.’

‘Where?’

‘I forget.’

‘How long ago was this?’

‘About three years, I think—I cannot be certain.’

‘How long have you been the slave of Afer?’

‘Nearly four years.’

‘Have you ever seen this man since then?’

‘Yes.’

‘What business had you with him?’

‘Only to tell him where my master was to see him.’

‘Have you ever seen him in the house of your master?’

‘Yes—once, not long ago.’

‘Have you ever had any other business with him?’

‘No.’

‘Have you ever seen this man in company with your master?—answer!’

‘I have.’

‘Enough then for the present—you may go.’

When the slave had left the room there fell a momentary deep silence upon

all present, ominous and painful.

‘Titus Afer, do you now deny all knowledge of this man Cestus?’ said

Tiberius in sardonic tones.

With his arms folded, and his eyes fixed before him, Afer remained as if

turned to granite, unheedful of everything whilst his slave unconsciously

dashed all hope of escape away.

‘Do you deny all knowledge of this man Cestus?’ repeated Tiberius.

‘I have already done so,’ replied Afer stolidly; ‘I refuse to say more. I

am prejudged—it is useless to say more.’

Another silence fell on the room and the Prefect frowned and fidgeted. But

the Emperor seemed in no hurry to relieve the embarrassing stillness.

‘There has been no judgment delivered so far,’ he said at length. ‘Do you

impugn the words of your slave?’

‘He is a Greek, and a born liar,’ said Afer bitterly.

Thrasullus and Seleucus the philosophers, both of them Greeks, pricked up

their ears at the insinuation, and reared their heads in indignation.

‘Greek or no Greek, do you say that he has now lied?’ said Tiberius.

‘I say no more—it is useless,’ replied Afer abruptly.

‘Good! Then the matter shall be transferred to Rome and probed to the

bottom forthwith,’ said Tiberius sternly, as he sat up; ‘I command it, and

it is no less due to society. Prefect, I give Domitius Afer and this man

Cestus into thy care. Let them be conveyed to the city and handed over to

the charge of the Pretors there, who shall examine fully into the truth,

with the help of whatever witnesses are forthcoming.’

‘Noble Fabricius, remember your pledge to me,’ said Cestus, as alarm began

to get the upper hand of the exultation which had hitherto lighted his

coarse visage.

‘Upon his full confession I promised this man that he should come to no

hurt,’ said Fabricius, immediately rising from his seat. ‘I pray you will

not see fit to cause me to break faith.’

‘Granted, Fabricius,’ returned the Emperor graciously; ‘nevertheless I

insist on a full inquiry. You must attend the court with the woman and the

maiden if required.’

‘One other request, Caesar.’

‘Go on.’

‘The headstrong boy—the Centurion Martialis, who offended in his love for

this girl—I beseech you show clemency to him, and pardon his youth and hot

blood. He is loyal and brave, and his desperation carried him away.’

‘How say you, Prefect,’ said Tiberius, turning to Sejanus; ‘is your

Centurion to go scot free of his behaviour?’

‘I am of the same opinion as Fabricius, and think he has been sufficiently

punished. Caesar may well overlook a boyish rashness,’ replied Sejanus.

‘Good! Then I yield to you. He shall be released, but I will not

altogether pass over his offence. I will relieve him of his centurionship

for a while, as a salutary discipline to remind him of his fault. As a

citizen of the plain coat he will be able to devote more time to his wife.

Fabricius, you dine with me to‐night.’

So saying the Emperor rose smiling, and, leaning on his gigantic Nubian,

passed into the inner apartment. When he had disappeared the others

departed by degrees, full of interest and speculation on what had passed.

Sullen and impenetrable, Afer refused to enter into any intercourse,

despite the Prefect’s efforts for that purpose; and Sejanus, therefore,

shrugging his shoulders, left him in the apartment which was appointed to

him, until the time came to proceed to Rome.

CHAPTER IV.

Escaping from the throng into privacy with his recovered child, Fabricius

poured out upon her all the endearments of a nature transported with joy

and thankfulness. His fervent warmth, and almost childish delight, touched

Neæra very deeply, but yet it was impossible for her to respond as freely.

She was still the humble cottage girl, and the stranger patrician awed her

somewhat. In addition to this, the rapid bewildering occurrences and

disclosures of the afternoon had left her in a state of confusion. She

seemed to exist in the midst of a strange dream, and her labouring

thoughts were dogged by unbelief.

All perplexities vanished for the time at the sudden appearance of her

lover within the room. He came, not with the haggard look and the

attendant guard of a desponding prisoner, but free, alone, and smiling.

With a low cry she sprang toward him and was clasped in his arms. Here, at

least, was no place for doubt; and, on his breast, she peacefully wept

away all the darkness and misery which had loaded her mind so grievously

during the last terrible days.

‘You are sadly pale and thin,’ he murmured, as he touched her cheek

caressingly, after the first moments of her emotion had passed away. ‘Have

they not treated you well?’

‘Quite well.’

‘The gods be praised—it is more than I once looked for,’ he said

fervently.

‘But all is well now, and you are free,’ she said, looking up into his

face, and smiling through her glittering tears. ‘Shall we not go soon from

this place?’

‘You, doubtless, my sweet; your duty lies with your grandsire. Does she go

back to Rome with you, Fabricius?’

‘Ay truly,’ answered the old man, who was watching them with infinite

satisfaction, ‘and you also.’

‘Ah, if I knew it were so!’

‘Then rest assured—it is the will of Tiberius.’

‘Then if this sweet girl’s will be in unison with Caesar’s I will not

strive against my fate—I await her decree.’

‘What Caesar commands I cannot forbid, and must fain put up with,’ said

she demurely.

‘Then I will go; but circumstances are altered since I last saw thee. You

have been transformed from the poor potter’s girl. Once you had scruples

in matching with one out of your own station. Do you still keep them? Will

you now stoop to a poor Pretorian?’

‘You took great labour to remove the scruples I had then—would you now

bring them back again?’ she said.

‘Yes, if I might plant them in myself for you to charm away—it would be a

task I could never weary of.’

‘But I should—so let us not begin,’ she replied, with a divine smile.

‘What is all this muttering between you?’ cried Fabricius, growing

impatient.

‘I am asking her if she thinks as kindly of me now that she is changed

from the potter’s child into the granddaughter of Fabricius,’ replied

Martialis.

‘Well, and what says she to that? Come, child, let us hear your sweet

notes,’ said Fabricius; ‘he that bearded Caesar in his own hall for your

sake is worthy of some reward.’

‘I have already given him all I have to give,’ she said, smiling and

blushing upon her lover.

‘What in the world can better it, my sweet Neæra?’ responded Lucius with a

fervent kiss.

‘Neæra no longer, but Aurelia,’ cried Fabricius.

‘Neæra she must ever be to me,’ said Lucius.

* * * * * * *

Here we will leave Martialis in his prime, with the crown of his life in

the person of a beloved wife and noble offspring. One of his sons, named

after himself, was a man of learning and taste, and is immortalised in the

letters of his friend and namesake, the great Roman epigrammist. We cannot

refrain from concluding with that epistle of the latter which relates to

the mansion of old Fabricius, and we present it in a well‐known

translation:——

‘On the long ridge of the Janiculan Hill lie the few acres

belonging to Julius Martialis; land more blessed than the gardens

of the Hesperides. Secluded retreats are spread over the hills,

and the smooth summit, with gentle undulations, enjoys a cloudless

sky; and while a mist covers the hollow valleys, shines

conspicuous in a light all its own. The graceful turrets of a

lofty villa rise gently toward the stars. Hence you may see the

seven hills, rulers of the world, and contemplate the whole extent

of Rome, as well as the heights of Alba and Tusculum, and every

cool retreat that lies in the suburbs, with old Fidenae and little

Rubra, and the fruit‐bearing grove of Anna Perenna, which delights

in virgins’ blood. Thence may be seen the traveller on the

Flaminian and Salarian roads, while his carriage is unheard, so

that its wheels are no interruption to gentle sleep; neither is it

broken by the cry of the boatswain or the noise of hawsers,

although the Mulvian bridge is near, and ships are seen gliding

swiftly along the sacred Tiber. This country box, or rather

mansion, is rendered additionally agreeable by the welcome of its

owner. You will imagine it to be your own; so ungrudgingly, so

liberally is it thrown open to you, and with such refined

hospitality.... You now who think all these attractions

insignificant, cultivate, with a hundred spades, cool Tibur or

Praeneste, and give the slopes of Setia to one single husbandman,

whilst I, for my part, prefer to all your possessions the few

acres of Julius Martialis.’

THE END.

_Printed by_ R. & R. CLARK, _Edinburgh_.

SOME OPINIONS OF THE PRESS.

The Edinburgh Review says:—

“‘Neæra’ is given to us as a picture of Roman life, under an Emperor as

infamous as the Antonines were honourable; and the picture is, we think,

carefully drawn, and in its general features trustworthy.... Mr. Graham

has at the least given us a story of sustained interest; which he has done

well in connecting with the little island rock of Capri. On this island

Tiberius has left a lasting mark, and the remains of his work bear out the

old stories told about him.... We may take leave of Mr. Graham’s

interesting and powerful tale with a few words in which he speaks of the

palaces and prisons which rose here at the despot’s command.”

The Saturday Review says:—

“An admirable novel.... ‘Neæra’ is a novel with a story, and as good a

story as it often falls to one’s lot to find in a new book. The interest

grows somewhat gradually at first, but increases constantly as the story

progresses, and is multiplied by the interweaving of new threads and the

occurrence of startling incidents up to the very last pages of the

concluding volume. It is plain that a careful study of the masterpieces of

classical literature, and of the places to which they refer, has

necessarily preceded the writing of ‘Neæra.’ One of the best scenes in the

book is the final appearance of all the characters before Tiberius, who is

to decide whether Neæra is or is not the long‐lost granddaughter of the

Senator, and whether the villain is guilty or not of the blackest

crimes.... The style is for the most part good. Mr. Graham writes in a

careful and leisurely way, choosing good sound phrases, and occasionally

introduces passages which are really eloquent and beautiful.”

The St. James’s Gazette says:—

“Mr. Graham has a keen eye for what is called on the stage a striking

situation, and his situations follow each other so thick and fast that his

story never flags. From the suicide of Apicius to the tremendous fight in

the dining‐room under the eyes of Tiberius himself all is movement. And

this movement is never hurried or huddled, nor are the means by which Mr.

Graham extricates his characters from the difficulties into which he

brings them ever far‐fetched or improbable. He is a born story‐teller, and

‘Neæra’ is in consequence an admirable story.”

MACMILLAN’S COLONIAL LIBRARY.

1. BARKER.—Station Life in New Zealand. By Lady BARKER.

2. BARKER.—A Year’s House‐keeping in South Africa. By the Same.

3. BLACK.—A Princess of Thule. By WILLIAM BLACK.

4. CONWAY.—A Family Affair. By HUGH CONWAY.

5. CRAWFORD.—Mr. Isaacs: a Tale of Modern India. By F. M. CRAWFORD.

6. CRAWFORD.—Dr. Claudius: a True Story. By F. MARION CRAWFORD.

7. CRAWFORD.—A Roman Singer. By F. MARION CRAWFORD.

8. CRAWFORD.—A Tale of a Lonely Parish. By F. MARION CRAWFORD.

9. EMERSON.—The Conduct of Life. By RALPH WALDO EMERSON.

10. FARRAR.—Seekers after God. By the Venerable F. W. FARRAR, D.D.,

F.R.S., Archdeacon of Westminster.

11. FORBES.—Souvenirs of some Continents. By ARCHIBALD FORBES, LL.D.

12. HAMERTON.—Human Intercourse. By P. G. HAMERTON.

13. KEARY.—Oldbury. By ANNIE KEARY.

14. JAMES.—Tales of Three Cities. By HENRY JAMES.

15. MITFORD.—Tales of Old Japan. By A. B. MITFORD.

16. OLIPHANT.—A Country Gentleman. By Mrs. OLIPHANT.

17, 18, 19. OLIPHANT.—The Literary History of England in the end of

the 18th and beginning of the 19th Century. By Mrs. OLIPHANT. 3

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20. ST. JOHNSTON.—Camping among Cannibals. By ALFRED ST. JOHNSTON.

21. MURRAY.—Aunt Rachel. By D. CHRISTIE MURRAY.

22. YONGE.—Chantry House. By CHARLOTTE M. YONGE.

23. HARRISON.—The Choice of Books, and other Literary Pieces. By

FREDERIC HARRISON.

24. THE AUTHOR OF ‘JOHN HALIFAX, GENTLEMAN.’—Miss Tommy: A Medieval

Romance. By the author of ‘JOHN HALIFAX, GENTLEMAN.’

25. MALET.—Mrs. Lorimer: A Sketch in Black & White. By LUCAS MALET.

26. CONWAY.—Living or Dead. By HUGH CONWAY.

27. OLIPHANT.—Effie Ogilvie. By Mrs. OLIPHANT.

28. HARRISON.—A Northern Lily. By JOANNA HARRISON.

29. NORRIS.—My Friend Jim. By W. E. NORRIS.

30. LAWLESS.—Hurrah: a Study. By the Hon. EMILY LAWLESS.

31. THE AUTHOR OF ‘JOHN HALIFAX, GENTLEMAN.’—King Arthur: Not a Love

Story. By the author of ‘JOHN HALIFAX, GENTLEMAN.’

32. HARDY.—The Mayor of Casterbridge. By THOMAS HARDY.

33. GRAHAM.—Neæra: a Tale of Ancient Rome. By JOHN W. GRAHAM.

34. MADOC—Margaret Jermine. By FAYR MADOC.

35. YONGE.—A Modern Telemachus. By CHARLOTTE M. YONGE.

36. SHORTHOUSE.—Sir Percival. By J. HENRY SHORTHOUSE.

37. OLIPHANT.—A House Divided against Itself. By Mrs. OLIPHANT.

38. THE AUTHOR OF ‘JOHN HALIFAX, GENTLEMAN.’—About Money, and other

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39. BLACK.—The Strange Adventures of a Phaeton. By WILLIAM BLACK.

40. ARNOLD.—Essays in Criticism. By MATTHEW ARNOLD.

41. HUGHES.—Tom Brown’s Schooldays. By an OLD BOY.

42. YONGE.—The Dove in the Eagle’s Nest. By CHARLOTTE M. YONGE.

43. OLIPHANT.—A Beleaguered City. By Mrs. OLIPHANT.

44. MORLEY.—Critical Miscellanies. By JOHN MORLEY.

45. BRET HARTE.—A Millionaire of Rough‐and‐Ready, etc. By BRET

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46. CRAWFORD.—Saracinesca. By F. MARION CRAWFORD.

47. VELEY.—A Garden of Memories: and other Stories. By MARGARET

VELEY.

48. BLACK.—Sabina Zembra. By WILLIAM BLACK.

49. HARDY.—The Woodlanders. By THOMAS HARDY.

50. DILLWYN.—Jill. By E. A. DILLWYN.

51. DILLWYN.—Jill and Jack. By E. A DILLWYN.

52. WESTBURY.—Frederick Hazzleden. By HUGH WESTBURY.

53, 54. The New Antigone: A Romance. 2 vols.

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56. CUNNINGHAM.—The Cœruleans: A Vacation Idyll. By H. S.

CUNNINGHAM.

57, 58. HARTLEY.—Ismay’s Children. By Mrs. NOEL HARTLEY. 2 vols.

59. CRAWFORD.—Zoroaster. By F. MARION CRAWFORD.

60. NOEL.—Hithersea Mere. By Lady AUGUSTA NOEL.

*** _Other Volumes to follow._

FOOTNOTES

1 The ‘Clavus’ was a very distinctive token in the later Roman days.

The ‘Latus Clavus’ was a broad purple band running down the centre

of the tunic; it was worn only by senators. The ‘Clavus Angustus,’

as described above, was a sign of equestrian rank. A senator

retiring from office changed the former for the latter.

2 About £500,000, or half a million of money.

3 Nearly £90,000.

TRANSCRIBER’S NOTE

The table of contents, which was not present in the original book, has

been added to the electronic version.

Variations in spelling and hyphenation have not been changed.

Following changes have been made to the text:

page 45, quote mark added before “I act”, period changed to comma

after “answer”

page 62, period changed to comma after “patron”

page 73, quote mark added after “Pretorians?”

page 107, comma added after “freedman”, quote mark added before

“See”

page 110, quote mark added after “goddess.”

page 233, quote mark added after “but——”

page 246, period added after “look”

page 259, quote mark added after “aristocrat.”

page 289, quote mark added after “not!”

page 319, quote mark added after “requirements,”

page 364, “scrunity” changed to “scrutiny”

page 376, “to” added before “proceed”

page 394, quote mark added after “nephew.”

page 415, quote mark added after “Fabricius,”

page 418, “things” changed to “thing”