“I do not know that I am especially gloomy to-night,” replied Drusus, a bit testily.  “I know little whereon to make merry.”

“The arrows of Amor,” hinted Antonius, “sink deep in the soul, and the god is unfair; he shoots venomed darts; the poison ever makes the pain greater.”

“I would you could endure your own troubles,” retorted the other, “and let me care for mine!”

“Perpol, friend,” replied Antonius, “don’t be vexed!  I see it is a case of your wanting little said on a sore point.  Well, keep silent, I won’t tease you.  Doesn’t Theognis declare:—­

  “’Caress me not with words, while far away
  Thy heart is absent and thy feelings stray’?[177]

  [177] Elton, translator.

And doubtless you would reverse the saying and put ‘my heart’ for ’thy heart.’  Forgive me.”

But Drusus, now that the ice was broken, was glad to talk.

“Now, amice, I won’t harbour any ill feeling.  I know that you don’t look at women the way I do.  If you had ever fallen in love with one like Cornelia, it would have been different.  As it is, you can only stare at me, and say to yourself, ’How strange a sensible fellow like Drusus should care for a girl from whom he has been parted for nearly two years!’ That’s why I doubt if your sympathy can be of any great solace to me.”

“Well,” said Antonius, washing down his puls with a draught of water from a second helmet at hand, “I can’t say that I would be full of grief two years from the day my beloved Fulvia was taken from me.  But there are women of many a sort.  Some are vipers to sting your breast, some are playthings, some are—­what shall I call them—­goddesses? no, one may not kiss Juno; flowers? they fade too early; silver and gold? that is rubbish.  I have no name for them.  But believe me, Quintus, I have met this Cornelia of yours once or twice, and I believe that she is one of those women for whom my words grow weak.”

“Then you can sympathize, can feel, for me,” said Drusus, as he lay back with his head on the dark green sward.

“Yes, as a poor man who has always possessed nothing can feel for a rich merchant whose whole fortune is about to founder at sea.  Do not spurn my feeble sort of pity.  But do you know nothing of her, not a word, a sign?  Is she alive or dead?  Much less, does she still care for you?”

“Nothing!” answered Drusus, and the sense of vexation and helplessness choked his utterance.  “She vanished out of sight at Baiae, as a flash of lightning passes away in the sky.  I cannot imagine the cause of her disappearance.  The pirates, indeed, might have wished to take her for ransom; but no, they bore her off with never a demand for money from any friend or relative.  I have tried to trace them—­the Pompeian ships on every sea make it impossible.  I have questioned many prisoners and spies; she is not at the Pompeian camp with her uncle.  Neither can I discover that her