She gazed blissfully into Verus’ eyes and exclaimed, “Give me your hand my son, help me up, for I will be here no longer.  What good spirits I feel in!  Yes, this is the joy that is allotted to other women before their hair is grey!  But child—­dear and only child—­you must love me really as a mother.  I am too old for tender trifling, and yet I could not bear it if you gave me nothing but a child’s reverence.  No, no, you must be my friend whose heart warns him of my wishes, who can laugh with me to-day, and weep with me to-morrow—­and who shows that he is happier when his eye meets mine.  You are now my son; and soon you shall have the name of son; that is happiness enough for one evening.  Not another word —­this hour is like the finished masterpiece of some great painter; every touch that could be added might spoil it.  You may kiss my forehead, I will kiss yours; now I will go to rest, and to-morrow when I wake I shall say to myself that I possess something worth living for—­a child, a son.”

When the Empress was alone she raised her hand in prayer but she could find no words of thanksgiving.  One hour of pure happiness she had indeed enjoyed, but how many days, months, years of joylessness and suffering lay behind her!  Gratitude knocked at the door of her heart but it was instantly met by bitter defiance; what was one hour of happiness in the balance against a ruined lifetime?

Foolish woman! she had never sown the seeds of love, and now she blamed the gods for niggardliness and cruelty in denying her a harvest of love.  And now, on what soil had the seed of maternal tenderness fallen?

Verus it is true had left her content and full of hope—­Sabina’s altered demeanor, it is true, had touched his heart—­he purposed to cling to her faithfully even after his formal adoption; but the light in his eye was not that of a proud and happy son, on the contrary it sparkled like that of a warrior who hopes to gain the victory.

Notwithstanding the late hour, his wife had not yet gone to bed.  She had heard that he had been summoned to the Empress on his return home, and awaited him not without anxiety, for she was not accustomed to anything pleasant from Sabina.  Her husband’s hasty step echoed loudly from the stone walls of the sleeping palace.  She heard it at some distance, and went to the door of her room to meet him.  Radiant, excited, and with flushed cheeks, he held out both his hands to her.  She looked so fair in her white night-wrapper of fine white material, and his heart was so full that he clasped her in his arms as fondly as when she was his bride; and she loved him even now no less than she had done then, and felt for the hundredth time with grateful joy that the faithless scapegrace had once more returned to her unchangeable and faithful heart, like a sailor who, after wandering through many lands seeks his native port.

“Lucilla,” he cried, disengaging her arms from round his neck.  “Oh, Lucilla! what an evening this has been!  I always judged Sabina differently from you, and have felt with gratitude that she really cared for me.  Now all is clear between her and me!  She called me her son.  I called her mother.  I owe it to her, and the purple—­the purple is ours!  You are the wife of Verus Caesar; you are certain of it if no signs and omens come to frighten Hadrian.”