“Without you there is no light in the heavens, no beauty in the earth, no hope or glory in the future, no joy in my heart.  My sword threatens me, dear love, when I think of losing you.”

She turned, quickly, with almost a look of surprise.

“It is beautiful,” said she, with a sigh; “but is there no more?  Think, dear, noble knight; do think of more!”

She was near forgetting her plan.  He took her in his arms and kissed her.

“Think—­think of more,” said she, “and I will dance the tourina.”

There was a note of gladness in her voice.  It rang merry as a girdle of silver bells.  Now, on the floor near them was a golden square of sunlight, and, tabret in hand, she sprang up and began to dance in it.  She moved swiftly back and forth, her arms extended, her white robe flowing above the sapphires in each purple fillet on her ankles.

“Now, dear Vergilius, tell me, why do you love me?” she said, throwing herself upon the cushions near him with glowing cheeks.

“Because you are Arria.  Because Arria is you.  Because I must, for your pure and noble heart and for your beauty,” said he.  “When I look upon you I forget my dreams of war and conquest; I think only of peace and love and have no longer the heart to slay.  Oh, sweet Arria!  I feel as if I should fling my swords into the Tiber.”

“Oh, my love! could I make you throw your swords into the Tiber I should be very happy.”  Her eyes had turned serious and thoughtful.  Her girlish trickery had come to an end.  Vanity retired, now, and Love had sole command.

He put his arms about her and rained kisses upon her face, her hair, her eyes.  “Say it all again, dear Vergilius—­say it a hundred times,” she whispered.

“My dear one, I love you more than I can say.  Now am I prepared to speak in deeds, in faithfulness, in devotion.”

“But, once more, why do you love me?  Why me?” said she, moving aside with an air of preoccupation, her chin resting upon her hand, her elbow upon the gauze pillow of rose leaves in her lap.  “Is it my beauty more than myself?”

“No,” he answered; “your beauty is intoxicating, and I thank the gods for it, but your sweet self, your soul, is more, far more to me than your grace and all your loveliness.”

She had dreamed of such love but never hoped for it, and now all the pretty tricks she had thought of had become as the mummery of fools.  She sat in silence for a little space, her eyes upon her girdle, and a new and serious look came into her face.

“I shall try, then,” said she, presently—­“I shall try to be noble.  But shall you—­shall you truly throw your swords into the Tiber?”

“Would I might,” said he, sadly.  “And now I must tell you—­” He paused, and Arria turned quickly, her lips trembling as her color faded.

“In three days I go to Jerusalem,” he added, “by command of the emperor.”