“Letters!” cried Gorgo, drawing away her hand.  “Well, you are a tardy messenger!  Our houses are within a stone’s throw, and yet in a whole day, from noon till noon, so old a friend could not find a few minutes to deliver the letters entrusted to him, or to call upon such near neighbors . . .”

“First there were my parents,” interrupted the young soldier.  “And then the tyrant military duty, which kept me on the stretch from yesterday afternoon till an hour or two since.  Romanus robbed me even of my sleep, and kept me in attendance till the morn had set.  However, I lost but little by that, for I could not have closed my eyes till they had beheld you!  This morning again I was on duty, and rarely have I ridden to the front with such reluctance.  After that I was delayed by various details; even on my way here—­but for that I cannot be sorry for it gave me this chance of finding you alone.  All I ask now is that we may remain so, for such a moment is not likely to be repeated.—­There, I heard a door . . .”

“Come into the garden,” cried Gorgo, signing to him to follow her.  “My heart is as full as yours.  Down by the tank under the old sycamores —­we shall be quietest there.”

Under the dense shade of the centenarian trees was a rough-hewn bench that they themselves had made years before; there Gorgo seated herself, but her companion remained standing.

“Yes!” he exclaimed.  “Here—­here you must hear me!  Here where we have been so happy together!”

“So happy!” she echoed softly,

“And now,” he went on, “we are together once more.  My heart beats wildly, Gorgo; it is well that this breastplate holds it fast, for I feel as though it would burst with hope and thankfulness.”

“Thankfulness?” said Gorgo, looking down.

“Yes, thankfulness—­sheer, fervent passionate gratitude!  What you have given me, what an inestimable boon, you yourself hardly know; but no emperor could reward love and fidelity more lavishly than you have done—­ you, the care and the consolation, the pain and the joy of my life!  My mother told me—­it was the first thing she thought of—­how you shed tears of grief on her bosom when the false report of my death reached home.  Those tears fell as morning dew on the drooping hopes in my heart, they were a welcome such as few travellers find on their return home.  I am no orator, and if I were, how could speech in any way express my feelings?  But you know them—­you understand what it is, after so many years . . .”

“I know,” she said looking up into his eyes, and allowing him to seize her hand as he dropped on the bench by her side.  “If I did not I could not bear this—­and I freely confess that I shed many more tears over you than you could imagine.  You love me, Constantine . . .”

He threw his arm round her; but she disengaged herself, exclaiming: