Cornelia had practically lost reckoning of time and seasons.  She had ceased hoping for a letter from her mother; even a taunting missive from Ahenobarbus would have been a diversion.  She was so closely guarded that she found herself praying that Drusus would not try to steal a second interview, for the attempt might end in his murder.  Only one stray crumb of comfort at last did she obtain, and it was Artemisia who brought it to her.  The girl had been allowed by Phaon to walk outside the grounds of the villa for a little way, and her pretty face had won the good graces of one or two slave-boys in an adjoining seaside house.  Artemisia came back full of news which they had imparted:  the consuls had fled from Rome; Pompeius was retreating before Caesar; the latest rumour had it that Domitius was shut up in Corfinium and likely to come off hardly.

The words were precious as rubies to Cornelia.  She went all that day and the next with her head in the air.  Perhaps with a lover’s subtle omniscience she imagined that it was Drusus who had some part in bringing Domitius to bay.  She pictured the hour when he—­with a legion no doubt at his back—­would come to Baiae, not a stealthy, forbidden lover, but a conqueror, splendid in the triumph of his arms; would enter the villa with a strong hand, and lead her forth in the eyes of all the world—­his wife! and then back to Praeneste, to Rome—­happy as the Immortals on Olympus; and what came after, Cornelia neither thought nor cared.

On those days the sea was lovely, the sunlight fair, and all the circling sea-gulls as they hovered over the waves cried shrilly one to the other; “How good is all the world!” And then, just as Cornelia was beginning to count the hours,—­to wonder whether it would be one day or ten before Drusus would be sufficiently at liberty to ride over hill and dale to Baiae,—­Phaon thrust himself upon her.

“Your ladyship,” was his curt statement, “will have all things prepared in readiness to take ship for Greece, to-morrow morning.”

“For Greece!” was the agonized exclamation.

“Certainly; it is useless to conceal matters from your ladyship now.  Caesar has swept all Italy.  Corfinium may fall at any time.  His excellency the consul Lentulus is now at Brundusium.  He orders me to put you on board a vessel that has just finished her lading for the Piraeus.”

This then was the end of all those glittering day-dreams!  Caesar’s victories only would transfer Cornelia to a more secure bondage.  She had enough pride left not to moan aloud and plead with an animal like Phaon not to crush her utterly.  In fact she was benumbed, and did not fully sense the changed situation.  She went through a mechanical process of collecting her wardrobe, of putting her jewellery in cases and boxes, of laying aside for carriage a few necessaries for Artemisia.  Phaon, who had expected a terrible scene when he made his announcement, observed to himself that, “The domina is more sensible than I supposed.  I think her uncle will have his way now soon enough, if Master Lucius does not get his throat cut at Corfinium.”  And having thus concluded to himself,—­satisfactorily, if erroneously,—­he, too, made arrangements for the voyage impending.