“That you are you, and a man,” said she, sighing.  “In some way it is—­it is such a pity, I dare not suffer you to caress me.  And yet—­and yet, I do love it.”

“And your lips,” said he, embracing her, “they are to me as the gate of Elysium!”

“It may be we are now in the islands of the blest and know them not,” she whispered.

She tried to draw herself away.

“I will not let you go.  Indeed, I cannot let you go.”

“And I am glad,” she answered, with a little laugh, her hand caressing his brow.  “I do love the feel of your arms and your lips—­beautiful son of Varro!”

“I will not let you go until—­until you have promised to be my bride.  Think, the term is only two years.”

“Be it one or many, I will be your bride,” said she.  “And although you were never to return, yet would I always wait for you and think of this day.”

She drew herself away and sat thoughtful, her chin upon her hands.

“Now are you most beautiful,” said he, “with that little touch of sorrow in your face.  It gives me high thoughts to look at you.”

While they were thus sitting a woman, well past middle age, came into their presence.  She stopped near the feet of Arria.  It was her grandmother, the Lady Claudia, once a beauty of the great capital, now gray and wrinkled, but still erect with patrician pride.

Vergilius had risen quickly, bowed low, and kissed her hand.

“I often saw you, son of my friend, when you were a child,” said she.  “I remember when you were young you went away with the legions.”

“To learn the art of war,” he answered.

“Sit down, dear grandmother,” said the girl, as he brought a chair.  “Now let her hear you tell me why it is that you have chosen me, dear Vergilius—­let her hear you.”

“I know not.  Perhaps because your beauty, sweet girl, is like the snare of the fowler and brought me to your hand.  Then something in your eyes captured the heart of me—­something better than beauty.  It is the light of your soul.  Love and peace and innocence and gentleness and all good are in it.  That is why.”

The two embraced each other.  The Lady Claudia rose and came and put her hands upon them, and her voice trembled with emotion.

“They are beautiful,” said she, “the kisses of the young, and their words are as the music of Apollo’s lyre.  I thank the gods I have seen it all again.  But you are going away to-morrow.  Son of Varro, be not as other men.  Remember it is not well for women to live apart from the men they love.”

“I leave at daybreak,” said the young knight. “’Tis for two years, so said the emperor; for ‘only’ two years.”

“She shall not be as others I have known,” said the Lady Claudia.  “It is an evil time, good youth; but, remember, as men are so are women.  Last night I dreamed a wonderful dream of you two, and of a sweet, immortal love between men and women.  Some say the dreams of men are, indeed, the plans of the gods.  Pray to them.  It may be they will give you this great love.”