Fabia gave a scream and sprang back in instinctive alarm.  In the twinkling of an eye it flashed over her that for some purpose or other she had been trapped.  Gabinius she knew barely by sight; but his reputation had come to her ears, and fame spoke nothing good of him.  Yet even at the moment when she felt herself in the most imminent personal peril, the inbred dignity and composed hauteur of the Vestal did not desert her.  At the selfsame instant that she said to herself, “Can I escape through the atrium before they can stop me?” recovering from her first surprise, and with never a quiver of eyelash or a paling of cheek, she was saying aloud, in a tone cold as ice, “And indeed, most excellent Gabinius, you must pardon me for being startled; for all that I know of you tells me that you are likely to find a sombre Vestal sorry enough company.”

Gabinius had been counting coolly on a very noisy scene, one of a kind he was fairly familiar with—­an abundance of screaming, expostulation, tearing of hair, and other manifestations of feminine agony—­to be followed, of course, by ultimate submission to the will of all-dominant man.  He was not accustomed to have a woman look him fairly in the eye and speak in tones, not of bootless fury, but of superior scorn.  And his answer was painfully lacking in the ascendant volubility which would have befitted the occasion.

“Forgive me; pardon; it was of course necessary to resort to some subterfuge in order—­in order to prevent your attendants from becoming suspicious.”

Fabia cast a glance behind her, and saw that before the two doors leading to the atrium her conductor and another tall slave had placed themselves; but she replied in a tone a little more lofty, if possible, than before:—­

“I cannot well, sir, understand you.  Are you a friend of Titus Denter, who is sick?  I do not see that any subterfuge is necessary when I am to receive the deposit of a will from a dying man.  It is a recognized duty of my office.”

Gabinius was still more at a loss.

“You should certainly understand, lady,” he began, cursing himself for having to resort to circumlocutions, “that this is my own villa, and I have not the pleasure of knowing Titus Denter.  I sent the letter because—­”

“Because, my worthy sir,” interrupted Fabia, not however raising her voice in the least, “you are weary of Greek flute-players for sweethearts or such Roman young ladies as admire either the ointments or the pimples of your face, and consequently seek a little diversion by laying snares for a sacred Vestal.”

Gabinius at last found free use for his tongue.

“Oh, lady; Lady Fabia,” he cried, stretching out his arms and taking a step nearer, “don’t misjudge me so cruelly!  I will forsake anything, everything, for you!  I have nothing to dream of day or night but your face.  You have served your thirty years in the Temple, and can quit its service.  Why entertain any superstitious scruple against doing what the law allows?  Come with me to Egypt; to Spain; to Parthia; anywhere!  Only do not reject me and my entreaties!  I will do anything for your sake!”