that the merchant’s daughter was avoiding her intentionally, and her heart ached with a sense of bereavement and loneliness.  To distract her thoughts she wandered round the room, looking at the works of art that stood against the walls, feeling the stuffs with which the cushions were covered and striking a lute which was leaning against the pedestal of a Muse.  She only played a few chords, but they sufficed to call up a whole train of memories; she sank on a divan in the darkest corner she could find in the brilliantly-lighted room, and gave herself up to reviewing the many events of the last few days.  It was all so bright, so delightful, that it hardly seemed real, and her hopes were so radiantly happy that for a moment she trembled to think of their fulfilment—­but only for a moment; her young soul was full of confidence and elation, and if a doubt weighed it down for an instant it was soon cast off and her spirit rose with bold expectancy.

Her heart overflowed with happiness and thankfulness as she thought of Marcus and his love for her; her fancy painted the future always by his side, and though her annoyance at Gorgo’s continued absence, and her dread of her lover’s mother slightly clouded her gladness, the sense of peace and rapture constantly came triumphantly to the front.  She forgot time as it sped, till at length Gorgo made her appearance.

She had not deliberately kept out of the little singer’s way; on the contrary, she had been detained by her father, for not till now had she dared to tell him that his mother, the beloved mistress of his house, was no more.  In the Serapeum she had not mentioned it, by the physician’s orders; and now, in addition, through the indiscretion of a friend, he had received some terrible tidings which had already been known for some hours in the city and which dealt him a serious blow.  His two sons were in Thessalonica, and a ship, just arrived from thence, brought the news-only too well substantiated, that fifteen thousand of the inhabitants of that town had been treacherously assassinated in the Circus there.

This hideous massacre had been carried out by the Imperial troops at Caesar’s command, the wretched citizens having been bidden to witness the races and then ruthlessly butchered.  A general of the Imperial army—­a Goth named Botheric—­had been killed by the mob, and the Emperor had thus avenged his death.

Porphyrius knew only too well that his sons would never have been absent from any races or games.  They certainly must have been among the spectators and have fallen victims to the sword of the slaughterer.  His mother and two noble sons were snatched from him in a day; and he would again have had recourse to poison as a refuge from all, if a dim ray of hope had not permitted him to believe in their escape.  But all the same he was sunk in despair, and behaved as though he had nothing on earth left to live for.  Gorgo tried to console him, encouraged his belief in her brothers’ possible safety, reminded him that it was the duty of a philosopher to bear the strokes of Fate with fortitude; but he would not listen to her, and only varied his lamentations with bursts of rage.