Now the splendid Antipater, son of Herod the Great, was up and speaking.  “I offer,” said he, “my heart and wealth and half my hopes, and the jewels of my mother, and a palace in the beautiful city of Jerusalem.”

“And a pretty funeral,” the girl remarked, thoughtfully.  “Jerusalem is half-way to Hades.”

The Roman matron turned, and put her arm around the waist of the girl and drew her close.  A young man rose from his chair and approached them.  He was Vergilius, son of Varro, and of equestrian knighthood.  His full name was Quintus Vergilius Varro, but all knew the youth by his nomen.  Tall and erect, with curly blond locks and blue eyes and lips delicately curved, there was in that hall no ancestral mask or statue so nobly favored.  He had been taught by an old philosopher to value truth as the better part of honor—­a view not common then, but therein was a new light, spreading mysteriously.

“Dear Lady Lucia,” said he, “I cannot amuse you with idle words.  I fear to speak, and yet silence would serve me ill.  I offer not the strength of my arms nor the fleetness of my feet, for they may fail me tomorrow; nor my courage, for that has never been tried; nor the renown of my fathers, for that is not mine to give; nor my life, for that belongs to my country; nor my fortune, for I should blush to offer what may be used to buy cattle.  I would give a thing greater and more lasting than all of these.  It is my love.”

The girl turned half away, blushing pink.  All had flung off the mask of comedy and now wore a look of surprise.

“By my faith!” said the poet, “this young knight meant his words.”

“A man of sincerity, upon my soul!” said the old philosopher.  “I have put my hope in him, and so shall Rome.  A lucky girl is she, for has he not riches, talent, honor, temperance, courage, and the beauty of a god?  And was I not his teacher?”

“My brave Vergilius,” the matron answered, “you are like the knights of old I have heard my father tell of.  They had such a way with them—­never a smile and a melancholy look in their faces when they spoke of love.  I give you the crown of gallantry, and, if she be willing, you shall walk with her in the garden.  That is your reward.”

Vergilius, advancing, took the girl’s hand and kissed it.

“Will you go with me?” said he.

“On one condition,” she answered, looking down at the folds of her tunic.

“And it is?”

“That you will entertain me with philosophy and the poets,” she answered, with a smile.

“And with no talk of love,” the matron added, as Arria took his arm.

They walked through the long hall of the palace, over soft rugs and great mosaics, and between walls aglow with tints of sky and garden.  These two bore with them a tender feeling as they passed the figures of embattled horse and host in carven wood, and mural painting and colored mosaic and wrought metal—­symbols of the martial spirit of the empire now oddly in contrast with their own.  They came out upon a peristyle overlooking an ample garden wherein were vines, flowers, and fruit trees.