it would cost her pride to become a penitent than of any obstacle in conscience.  At length she declared plainly that never would she humiliate herself before her aunt Petronilla, who had offered her no greeting and held scornfully apart.  Here, as Maximus too well knew, lay the great difficulty of the situation; these women hated each other, and their hate would only be exasperated by Aurelia’s conversion.  He spoke of the deacon Leander, now on his way hither—­begged Aurelia to listen to the reverend man, and gave solemn assurance that, the moment she abjured her errors, he would place her in a position of wealth and authority far above that of Petronilla.  So utterly did he exhaust himself in entreaty and argument that he fell into a fainting fit.  The physician was called for, and Aurelia, she too overcome with violent emotions, again retired to the part of the villa which had been assigned to her.

The Anicii of a bygone time, who took their solace here when marbles and mosaics, paintings and tapestries, were yet new, would have looked with consternation on halls so crumbling and bare, chambers so ill-appointed, as these in which the guests of the Senator Maximus had their dwelling.  Space there was in abundance, but of comfort in the guest-rooms little enough; and despite her brother’s commands, Petronilla had seen to it that Aurelia was not luxuriously lodged.  Better accommodation awaited the deacon Leander, whose arrival was announced an hour before sunset by a trotting courier.  His journey from Salernum had so wearied the ecclesiastic that he could but give a hand to be kissed by his hostess, and straightway retire into privacy; the repast that was ready for him had to be served beside his couch, and soon after night had fallen, Leander slumbered peacefully.  Meanwhile Basil and Decius and their friend from Rome had supped together, making what cheer they might under the circumstances; the Surrentine wine was a little acrid, falling short of its due age, but it sufficed to animate the talk.  Presently Decius withdrew, to study or to meditate through some hours of the night, for he slept ill; the others, going apart to a gallery lighted by the full moon, sat wrapped in thick, hooded cloaks, to converse awhile before they slept.  With their voices mingled the soft splash of a fountain.

Basil was telling of his journey to Cumae, and of the difficulty he had had in persuading Aurelia to visit her father.

‘Does she live alone there?’ inquired Marcian.

There was a pause before the reply, and when Basil spoke his voice fell to a note of half-hesitating confidence.

‘Alone? yes,’ he said, ’in the sense that no relative abode with her; but she had a companion—­a lady—­very young.’  And here he again paused, as if in some embarrassment.

‘A Roman?’ was Marcian’s next question, carelessly thrown out for he had little interest in Aurelia, and was half occupied with other thoughts.