A smile played upon her lips as she perceived young Hermas, who had already been for some time leaning motionless against the wall of the house opposite, and devouring with his gaze the figure of the beautiful young woman.  She had a facile and volatile nature.  Like the eye which retains no impression of the disabling darkness so soon as the rays of light have fallen on it, no gloom of suffering touched her so deeply that the lightest breath of a new pleasure could not blow her troubles to the winds.  Many rivers are quite different in color at their source and at their mouth, and so it was often with her tears; she began to weep for sorrow, and then found it difficult to dry her eyes for sheer overflow of mirth.  It would have been so easy for Phoebicius to make her lot a fair one! for she had a most susceptible heart, and was grateful for the smallest proofs of love, but between him and her every bond was broken.

The form and face of Hermas took her fancy; she thought he looked of noble birth in spite of his poor clothing, and when she observed that his checks were glowing, and that the hand in which he held the medicine phial trembled, she understood that he was watching her, and that the sight of her had stirred his youthful blood.  A woman—­still more a woman who is pleased to please—­forgives any sin that is committed for her beauty’s sake, and Sirona’s voice had a friendly ring in it as she bid Hermas good-morning and asked him how his father was, and whether the senator’s medicine had been of service.  The youth’s answers were short and confused, but his looks betrayed that he would fain have said quite other things than those which his indocile tongue allowed him to reiterate timidly.

“Dame Dorothea was telling me last evening,” she said kindly, “that Petrus had every hope of your father’s recovery, but that he is still very weak.  Perhaps some good wine would be of service to him—­not to-day, but to-morrow or the day after.  Only come to me if you need it; we have some old Falerman in the loft, and white Mareotis wine, which is particularly good and wholesome.”

Hermas thanked her, and as she still urged him to apply to her in all confidence, he took courage and succeeded in stammering rather than saying,—­“You are as good as you are beautiful.”

The words were hardly spoken when the topmost stone of an elaborately constructed pile near the slaves’ house fell down with a loud clatter.  Sirona started and drew back from the window, the grey-hound set up a loud barking, and Hermas struck his forehead with his hand as if he were roused from a dream.

In a few instants he had knocked at the senator’s door; hardly had he entered the house when Miriam’s slight form passed across behind the pile of stones, and vanished swiftly and silently into the slaves’ quarters.  These were by this time deserted by their inhabitants, who were busy in the field, the house, or the quarries; they consisted of a few ill-lighted rooms with bare, unfinished walls.