“Great Emperor!  I asked of thee a living love!—­and this is dead!”

A ripple of laughter ran through the crowd.  The Emperor leaned forward from his throne and smiled.

“Thank your Christian God for that!” he said—­“Our pagan deities are kinder!  They give us love for love!”

The gladiator gave a wild gesture of despair and turned his face upward to the light—­the face of Santoris!

“Dead!—­dead!”—­he cried—­“Of what use then is life?  Dark are the beloved eyes!—­cold is the generous heart!—­the fight has been in vain—­my victory mocks me with its triumph!  The world is empty!”

Again the laughter of the populace stirred the air.

“Go to, man!”—­and the rough voice of Nero sounded harshly above the murmurous din—­“The world was never the worse for one woman the less!  Wouldst thou also be a Christian?  Take heed!  Our lions are still hungry!  Thy love is dead, ’tis true, but we have not killed her!  She trusted in her God, and He has robbed thee of thy lawful possession.  Blame Him, not us!  Go hence, with thy laurels bravely won!  Nero commends thy prowess!”

He flung a purse of gold at the gladiator’s feet—­and then I saw the whole scene melt away into a confused mass of light and colour till all was merely a pearl-grey haze floating before my eyes.  Yet I was hardly allowed a moment’s respite before another scene presented itself like a painting upon the curtain of vapour which hung so persistently in front of me—­a scene which struck a closer chord upon my memory than any I had yet beheld.

* * *
* *
*

The cool, spacious interior of a marble-pillared hall or studio slowly disclosed itself to my view—­it was open to an enchanting vista of terraced gardens and dark undulating woods, and gay parterres of brilliant blossom were spread in front of it like a wonderfully patterned carpet of intricate and exquisite design.  Within it was all the picturesque grace and confusion of an artist’s surroundings; and at a great easel, working assiduously, was one who seemed to be the artist himself, his face turned from me towards his canvas.  Posed before him, in an attitude of indolent grace, was a woman, arrayed in clinging diaphanous drapery, a few priceless jewels gleaming here and there like stars upon her bosom and arms—­ her hair, falling in loose waves from a band of pale blue velvet fastened across it, was of a warm brown hue like an autumn leaf with the sun upon it, and I could see that whatever she might be according to the strictest canons of beauty, the man who was painting her portrait considered her more than beautiful.  I heard his voice, in the low, murmurous yet perfectly distinct way in which all sounds were conveyed to me in this dream pageant—­it was exactly as if persons on the stage were speaking to an audience.

“If we could understand each other,”—­he said—­“I think all would be well with us in time and eternity!”