CHornell IttittWHtta Cihrarg 
 
 BENNO LOEWY LIBRARY 
 
 COLLECTED BY 
 
 BENNO LOEWY 
 
 1854-1919 
 BEQUEATHED TO CORNELL UNIVERSITY 
 
Cornell University Library 
 PS 2186.K5A6 
 
 /Enone :a tale of slave life in Rome. 
 
 3 1924 022 162 170 
 
« Cornell University 
 B Library 
 
 The original of tliis book is in 
 tine Cornell University Library. 
 
 There are no known copyright restrictions in 
 the United States on the use of the text. 
 
 http://www.archive.org/details/cu31924022162170 
 
iENONE. 
 
iENONE: 
 
 A TALE 
 
 OF 
 
 SLAVE LIFE IN ROME 
 
 By LEONARD KIP. 
 
 SECOND EDITION. 
 
 NEW YORK : 
 
 PUBLISHED BY JOHN BRADBURN, 
 
 107 Nassau Street. 
 
 1867. 
 
J 4r - ^ S 
 
 KiiUTed iicconliitg to Act of I'dnLirL'S-., iji tlir yeiir ISfiG, 
 
 Bt JOHN li RAD BURN. 
 
 In the Clcrk'8 Oflicf of the District Court of the United Stiites for the Soiitht 
 Dintrict nf New- York. 
 
AFFECTIONATELY INSCRIBED 
 
 MY BROTHER, 
 
^ N- O N E : 
 
 A TALE OF SLAVE-LIFE IN ROME. 
 
 CSAPTEE I. 
 
 When, in the second year of. Titus Vespasian, the Roman 
 general Sergius Vanno returned from his armed expedi- 
 tion in the East, and asked for public honors, there were 
 some in the Senate who made objection. It was not 
 fitting — they argued — that formal tokens of national com- 
 mendation should be too readily bestowed. It had not 
 been so in the time of their fathers. Long years of 
 noble, self-sacrificing zeal and arduous service, crowned 
 with conquests of supreme importance, had then been the 
 only acknowledged title to the prize. It was scarcely 
 proper that the same distinctions which had hitherto been 
 awarded for the acquisition of the most valuable prov- 
 inces should be granted for the annexation of a mere 
 strip of worthless territory upon the extreme borders q{ 
 the Empire — ^wild, rugged, and inhospitable, and inhabited 
 by nomadic tribes, who .could only- be brought under a 
 
8 ^NONE. 
 
 nominal authority, and who would never prove otherwise 
 than turbulent and unprofitable subjects. Nor was it a 
 matter to be mentioned with especial" laudation that Ser- 
 gius Vanno had succeeded in repressing, with over- 
 whelming force, a revolt in a few of the ^gean islands. 
 If exploits such as these were to be so liberally recom- 
 pensed, what honors could there be left to, bestow upon 
 deeds of acknowledged brilliancy and importance ? 
 
 So, with cautious discrimination, spoke some of the 
 senators ; and so, in the secrecy of their hearts, most of 
 them thought. But against all -this were brought to bear, 
 not only the influence which Sergius naturally commanded 
 as a patrician of the highest rank, but also the far more 
 powerful pressure of popular clamor. Sergius was a fa- 
 vorite with the people. His noble birth and lineage en- 
 titled him to their respect. He was of a rare type of 
 manly beauty — was wealthy, and used his gold with liber- 
 ality — gave abundant largesses to the poorer classes — 
 was lavish in his expenditure upon the arts — did not 
 disdain, at times, to descend from his natural station and 
 associate with his inferiors, thereby pleasing the fancy of 
 the masses for social equality — patronized poets and aclr 
 ors, who, in return, sang or spouted his praise, and 
 thus still further added to his fame — and was noted for 
 a bold, frank, outspoken demeanor, which tended to con- 
 ciliate all classes with him. These were virtues not al- 
 ways to be found combined in one person. Moreover, he 
 was impulsively brave ; and, though still young, was 
 gifted with more than ordinary military genius, and had 
 carried on his campaign with that rashly daring energy 
 
^NONE. 9 
 
 which, when rewarded with success, never fails to com- 
 mend its possessor to popular adulation. In addition to 
 all this, other considerations of a less personal character 
 exerted their influence. Many months had elapsed since 
 Kome had enjoyed any great civic festivity, and the peo- 
 ple had begun to long for a new stimulant. The comple- 
 tion of the colossal Flavian amphitheatre had been delayed 
 beyond public expectation ; and though its speedy in- 
 auguration had been announced, there was serious doubt 
 whether the lower and more turbulent orders of the popu- 
 lace, so long restrained, would possess themselves with 
 sufiB.cient patience to await the occasion with proper calm- 
 ness. In fact, some outlet must be given to their excited 
 appetite for novelty ; and, therefore, after much Solemn 
 consideration, the Senate yielded to the public clamor, and 
 voted an ovation. 
 
 As a token of national appreciation, therefore, the honor 
 thus bestowed upon Sergius Vanno was not one of the first 
 order ; nor were such pageants a novelty to the Roman 
 people. Several times before, within the memory of that 
 generation, victorious generals had entered the city with 
 myrtle w'reaths upon their brows, and had exhibited to 
 applauding throngs the gathered wealth of conquered 
 provinces. Nor had many years elapsed since the present 
 emperor — then prince — crowned with the richer 9,nd more 
 lavish glories of a triumph, had ridden through the Via 
 Sacra, greeted with welcoming acclamations as the de- 
 stroyer of the Jewish capital — displaying before him the 
 spoils of the sacred temple, and bringing in his train such 
 thousands upon thousands of captives, that it had seenaed 
 
 1* 
 
10 ^ N N B . 
 
 as though all Palestine were being' emptied into Eome. 
 Compared with such exploits, those of Sergius were of 
 trifling importance. But it now entered little into the 
 minds of the people to make these comparisons. What- 
 ever had been done in past time by other commanders, 
 was not worth considering at present. Whoever might 
 have been renowned before, Sergius Vanno was the hero 
 of to-day. To him should be, all the honor which tens of 
 thousands of ringing voices and applauding hands could 
 lavish. And, therefore, once more, as in the days of the 
 past, the balconies of "the palaces and villas lining the 
 broad Sacra Via were gorgeous with rich gold and pur- 
 ple tapestries — the Forum glowed bright and resplendent 
 with statues and decorated arches — altars smoked with 
 sacrifice in front of columned temples — and the walls and 
 slopes of the Palatine Hill were joyous with triumphal 
 tokens, while, upon the summit, the house of the Csesars 
 glittered with banners and brave devices, and such costly 
 adornments as were best fitted to grace the festivity and 
 do honor to the exploits of a much-esteemed subject. 
 
 We know the scene. At first — in the full blaze of the 
 noonday sun — the streets standing silent and nearly de- 
 serted, except where a few workmen and artisans here and 
 there lingered to complete the festive preparations, or scat- 
 tered parties of the pr^torian guard, in holiday armor, 
 moved slowly to and fro, to watch that order was main- 
 tained. Later — when the shadows deepened, and the air 
 grew cooler — ^the avenues and prominent positions along 
 the established route of the ovation beginning to fill with 
 that great concourse of varied nationalities and con- 
 
JE N O N B . 11 
 
 ditions which only the imperial city could display. In 
 the open streets a disorderly rabble of slaves and bond- 
 men — pouring in steady streams from their kennels be- 
 hind the palaces and from the unhealthy purlieus of such 
 quarters as had been spared from the architectural en- 
 croachments of the wealthy, and allowed to fester in their 
 own neglected corruption. Gathered together in close 
 fraternity, the Briton, the Goth, the African, and the 
 Jew, — each bearing his badge of life-long servitude, some 
 even wearing marks of recent chastisement, but almost 
 all awaiting the approaching spectacle with pleased and 
 animated countenances, and in seeming forgetfulness that 
 so many of their own number had graced former displays, 
 and, by their degradation, had afforded amusement to 
 other equally unsympathetic concourses.- Among them, 
 the lesser Eomans — citizens in name, indeed, but, from 
 their poverty and the overbearing exactions of the patri- 
 cians, almost as much in slavery as those around them — 
 disdainfully asserting their' free birth, and in turn con- 
 temned by the slaves themselves, as men to whom liber- 
 ty was but another title for slow starvation, and who 
 would not dare to resent the vilest insults heaped upon 
 them by noble-owned and protected menials — and now 
 equally with the cqmmon herd obliged to submit to the 
 ^strong argument of sword and lanefe, as, every little 
 while, the soldiers along the line drove the whole writh- 
 ing crowd, without distinction, into smaller and more 
 confined compass. Here and there, knights and soldiers 
 of high rank — ^riding up on horseback, and pushing through 
 the struggling mass of slaves to the front, or more leisure- 
 
12 iENONE. 
 
 ly, but to equal purpose, waiting until their own menials 
 had gone before, and, with mingled threats and blows, 
 had cleared out vacant spaces for them. Other crowds. 
 Standing in favorable positions upon housetops and upon 
 hastily constructed stagings ; and more especially upon the 
 great amphitheatre, whose arches were blackened with clus- 
 ters of spectators, and whose summit, in^place of the last 
 few layers of stone, so soon to be adjusted, had its deep 
 human fringe. Upon palace balconies, groups of patricians 
 and noble ladies, displaying a dazzling array of gold and 
 purple and rare jewelry, and attended by Ethiopian ^laves,. 
 who, in glittering armlets, stood behind, holding feathered 
 canopies to shield their mistresses from the sun. All this 
 confusing concourse of wealth and poverty each moment 
 increasing in breadth and density, as every avenue emptied 
 new swarms into the packed arena, until it seemed as 
 though not only all Rome, but half the empire had gathered 
 there. 
 
 Later yet, the music of flutes and hautboys — ^which, for a 
 time, had been only indistinctly heard — ^breaking upon the 
 ear with a clearer sound, and the van of the procession 
 suddenly emerging into full view from behind the Circus 
 Maximus, and, accompanied by the ringing shout of thou ■ 
 sands spreading abroad new and louder welcomes, begin- 
 ning to file pait with rapid steps. First in order, the mar 
 gistrates in full official robes — ^the spoils of war — the white 
 sheep dressed for the sacrifice, and the priests .bearing the 
 holy vessels of the altar — gay trappings, flaunting stand- 
 ards, and all that could most readily inspire the heart with 
 elation and enthusiasm. After these, and guarded on either 
 
^NONE. 13 
 
 side by detached parties of troops, the captives ; — of barbaric 
 and Grecian origin mostly, but here and there interspersed 
 with men of other races — Jews, Syrians, and Huns — who, 
 through contiguity of place or love of arms or self-interest, 
 or a kindred hatred of the Eoman rule, had been drawn into 
 the battle — and who, having bravely stood their ground, 
 striving for success, and with hearts well prepared for the 
 consequences of failure, had been overtaken by the usual 
 defeat, and dragged into utter and hopeless slavery. Among 
 them, men of the Ethiopian race, also — who, having been 
 slaves in Greece, had fought, not for principle or for free- 
 dom, but simply at their owner's bidding, and had thereby, 
 upon being overcome, merely changed one class pf masters 
 for another — owners and slaves now knowing no difference 
 in position, but standing involved in the same common fate. 
 Some appearing defiant, others downcast and sullen, a few 
 excited and curious — most of them walking with unfettered 
 limbs, but here and there one heavily chained, betokening a 
 fierce and unsubdued nature, upon which it was still neces- 
 sary to put restraint. All marching or being dragged along 
 at an equal pace ; sometimes with an approximation to mil- 
 itary exactness — at other points breaking into a confused 
 mass, as women and children clung despairingly together 
 and prevented the maintenance of any regular order. 
 Around them, the spectators closely pressing,, with jnor- 
 bid curiosity, discussing with loud approval the value of 
 whatever of strength or beauty met their eyes, and occa- 
 sionally greeting some undersized and misshapen victim with 
 jeers of derision. And closing up the straggling line, more 
 soldiers, marching in well-formed, ranks, poising aloft rnyr- 
 
14 iB N N B . 
 
 tie-decked lances, and while interchanging salutations with 
 the eddying crowd, singing in measured cadence their songs 
 of victory. 
 
 And at last, as the sun sank yet lower towards the hori- 
 zon, a yet brighter brilliancy investing the scene, as far 
 down the line new shouts arose, and the struggling throng 
 caught up the loud acclaim and carried it onwards like a* 
 great wave, betokening the speedy approach of the most dis- 
 tinguished feature of the procession — the conqueror him- 
 self — hailed imperator by his troops — with his most noble 
 friends clustered about him, the myrtle wreath encircling 
 his brow, and his earnest gaze fixed upon the Capitol, th^ 
 honorable termination of his route. 
 
 In every respect, indeed — except in the display of those 
 few distinctive formalities required to mark, as with a legal 
 stamp, the actual and comparative value of the honor — ^the 
 same old familiar story, so often hitherto rehearsed upon that 
 line of Sacra Via and of Forum. Fresh incense burning upon 
 the altars, which had blazed for other heroes ; newly gathered 
 garlands hanging from the arches which had graced past 
 festivities ; and surging crowds, heedful only of the present 
 glory, and, with the customary popular fickleness, ready to 
 forget it all as soon as the fleeting pageant should be over, 
 now with indiscriminating zeal cheering the march of Ser- 
 gius Vanno as frantically as in past days other crowds had 
 greeted the triumphal cars of Ceesar and of Vespasian. 
 
iGNONE. 15 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 " Gradually the sun approached and dipped below the blue 
 line of extended plain which lay between the city and- the 
 eea ; the long shadows of afternoon began to blend into the 
 one deeper shade of evening ; the groups of distant build- 
 ings became more and more indistinct ; the arches of the 
 Colosseum softly faded away, leaving but a broad mass of 
 unbroken wall ; upon the Palatine Hill the great house of the 
 Caesars shone less and less gloriously as the sky darkened 
 behind the pile of decorated roofs ; here and there a light 
 gleamed from some distant quarter ; here and there stars 
 began to glisten in the sky. 
 
 Then the concourse of people, who had waited so long 
 and patiently, began to break apart. The pageant was not 
 yet entirely over, for fresh battalions of soldiers still 
 marched past at rapid pace, tuning their, steady tramp 
 to the cadence of their songs of triumph. But the great 
 feature of the occasion — the conqueror himself — had ridden 
 by ; and what yet remained was but a faint recapitulation 
 of the glories which had gone before. Therefore the patri- 
 cians retired from their balconies, the horsemen abandoned 
 their* stations and plunged down the many streets which 
 led out from the Forum, and the crowd of slaves and 
 menial citizens, already rendered so indistinct in the fading 
 light as to resemble one writhing, struggling monster rather 
 
16 ^NONE. 
 
 than separate beings, began to stretch out its long arms 
 into the narrow lanes an(J by-ways, and so gradually to melt 
 away. 
 
 Withdrawing from the front balcony of the Vanno pal- 
 ace, where, shielded from the sun, she had sat and watched 
 the procession pass by, jEnone, the young and fair wife of 
 the conqueror, now sought rest and retirement in an inner 
 apartment. Thither one of her women had preceded her, 
 and had drawn forward a cushioned lounge, had beaten 
 up the silken pillows, had placed a table near at hand, 
 with a light repast spread upon it, had trimmed and filled 
 with fresh olive-oil the large bronze lamp which swung 
 from the ceiling, and now stood by awaiting further 
 orders. 
 
 Throwing herself upon the lounge, jEnone covered her 
 face with her hands. What unbidden thought was it that 
 came ^^reeping into her heart to trouble her ? Why was it 
 that something of the bright joyousness of spirit with 
 which she had looked forward to that day had vanished ? 
 Surely nothing had occurred which of itself could bring to 
 her either sorrow or repining. All things had happened 
 as she had anticipated. She had seen her honored lord 
 pass by with the myrtle wreath upon his brow, his most 
 >vorthy officers at his side, and his bravest guards around 
 him. She had seen that he was strong and without wound, 
 as he had departed from her. She had heard the shouts 
 of applause which had welcomed his approach as though 
 he were a god ; and, with her heart generously and un- 
 selfishly alive only to his honor, and unable to realize that 
 all this frantic joy and adulation were not the passion of 
 
-SINONE. 17 
 
 the nation's life, but were merely one single, careless throb 
 of its feveted pulse, she had rejoiqed with him, believing 
 that he had indeed done what had made him the greatest 
 of all living men. And, better than all, amid this scene of 
 triumph, be had. not seemed unmindful of her, for he had 
 looked up and waved to her a salute, which the responsive 
 crowd had joined in and carried along with redoubled ac- 
 clamations, and he had sent to her his most- trusty slave 
 with a loving message. What, then, could she ask more ? 
 
 Nothing that she coiild name, or that if she named to 
 others, would have seemed a reasonable desire. And yet 
 at her heart there was a certain dim, indistinct foreboding 
 of evil, which she could not entirely repress. Was it that, 
 in his glance, as he rode by and beheld her awaiting him, 
 there was less of longing love than of gratified pride ? 
 Or did that flush upon his bronzed face indicate too surely 
 his enjoyment of this pageant for its own sake rather 
 than for the pleasure which he might have supposed that 
 she would derive from it? Was it from forgetfulness of 
 her that, after he had ridden past, he did not again look 
 back to wave one more recognition, but rather seemed to 
 gaze eagerly forward to where the assembled senators 
 stood ready to greet him ? Or, on the contrary, were all 
 these only vague and empty imaginings, arising from 
 the exhaustion and wearisomeness of long, impatient, wai1r 
 ing? 
 
 At length, raising her head, she saw her attendant bond- 
 woman standing at the distance of a few paces, with her 
 hands crossed upon her breast. The steady tramp of 
 marching troops outside had ceased, for the last battalion 
 
18 ^ N O N E . 
 
 had passed ; and now the only sound was the silver bub- 
 bling and plashing of a little fountain that adorned the 
 courtyard upon which the window of the apartment looked 
 out. 
 
 " The pageant is over now," said Mnone, " and he will 
 speedily be here. Let me know as soon as my lord returns." 
 
 The woman bowed her head in silence ; and then, feel- 
 ing that nothing more was wanted of her, slowly turned 
 to depart. As she did so, a new-comer entered the room — 
 a male slave of Gallic birth, who, by reason of hie lofty 
 stature as well as wonderful strength, had been promoted 
 from the lowest order of servitude to become Sergius 
 Vanno's armor-bearer and chief attendant. In that capa- 
 city he had fought through the late campaign, and had 
 now returned, bearing among his fellows his own share of 
 honor for successful and daring exploits. He had been 
 released from personal attendance only a few moments be- 
 fore, ia,nd was now carrying back his master's sword and 
 buckler, to hang them up in their accustomed place, and 
 himself subside into well-earned idleness. Being the first 
 time, for many months, that he had seen his mistress, he 
 muttered some rough ejaculations expressive of servile 
 devotion, and then stood in lazy attitude awaiting her 
 permission to speak further. 
 
 " Your master, Drumo ?" 
 
 " Will not return to-night," the man responded. " The 
 etnperor demands his presence." 
 
 " And that will detain him — " 
 
 " He knows not how long. But immediately after that, 
 there is to be a brave feast at the house of the poet 
 
^NONE. 
 
 19 
 
 Emilius, and it will doubtless be mjDrning before they sep- 
 arate." 
 
 " He bade you tell me this ?" 
 
 The giant nodded. 
 
 " It is well. That is all ; you can go. You may both 
 go, for I would be alone." 
 
 The armor-bearer turned upon his heel and strode away, 
 the sword and buckler, together with his own rougher 
 trappings, rattling at his back as he passed down the 
 .hall ; and behind him slowly crept away the bondwoman. 
 And ^none, once more leaning back upon the lounge, 
 gave herself up to sombre reflection. 
 
 It was, of course, no more than proper — she mused — 
 that her lord should .obey the behests of the emperor and 
 wait upon him. Perhaps new honors would then be 
 shbwered down ; and, at the least, it was no light priv- 
 ilege to stand in "the presence of the ruler of the world, 
 and there give personal narration of his exploits. But 
 when that interview was over, what need to join the rev- 
 els of another household, instead of hurrying back to 
 place his newly won garlands at her feet ? 
 
 She pondered upon the dubious reputation which at- 
 tached to the house of the poet Emilius, and recalled the 
 terrible stories which, from time to time, she had heard 
 regarding it. What might be the realities of the scenes 
 there enacted, none could truly tell, except the few most 
 intimate frequenters of that place ; but report gave no 
 flattering description of them. Even among the Eoman 
 ladies with whom she was associated, and whose informa- 
 tion was confined to such stray bits of gossip as they had 
 
20 ^NONB. 
 
 picked up from slaves and menials, and who, standing in 
 unconscious ,awe of her simple purity of heart, often fore- 
 bore to speak with her as freely and unguardedly as with 
 each other, she had occasionally heard such startling tales 
 of the wild dissipations there enacted, as surpassed con- 
 ception, and left her horrified senses no calm refuge except 
 in unbelief. The gorgeous feasts, the night-long libations, 
 the social intimacy with dancing girls and gladiators, the 
 mockery of all that was pure and holy, the derisive insults 
 to the gods themselves — these were practices which the 
 public voice connected with the house of Emilius, not as 
 occasional outbreaks of wild frivolity, but as the fixed 
 habits of his daily life. And if. these things were true, 
 what claim of pride or policy could such a place advance 
 to distract her lord from the allegiance due to his own 
 home alone ? 
 
 But possibly these things might not be true. She. re- 
 flected that the poet was wealthy ; and as long as the 
 world continues to be envious, riches will seldom fail to 
 bring false report upon their possessor. He was a man 
 of genius, also ; and all such can scarcely fail to find 
 rivals who will turn satirists and attack them in their 
 homes and daily life. Certainly, it is not difficult for 
 slander to magnify the genial gatherings of kindred spirits 
 into scenes of wild debauchery. And it was also true, 
 that if mere outside appearance is of any value as an index 
 of what is hidden, the slight figure, the pale and almost 
 girlish face, and the winning and courteous demeanor of 
 the poet were far from indicating a man of low and debas- 
 ing inclinations. Moreover, his writings as surely spoke 
 
^ N O N E . 21 
 
 the contrary ; and as she thus reasoned, ^none lifted from 
 its case a vellum roll with which Emilius himself had pre- 
 sented her, containing many of his poems, exquisitely en- 
 grossed. These poems treated not upon the pleasures of 
 wine and love — those fruitful and ever-varying subjects of 
 the Horatian schopl. Instead of this, they pursued, in 
 deep-sounding and majestically rolling dactyls, the less 
 favorite and trodden track of Socrates and Plato, and dis- 
 coursed upon temperance and honor — upon the satisfaction 
 ..derived from a well-spent life, and the delights attending 
 a peaceful death — upon the immateriality of the soul, and 
 the reward bestowed by the gods upon those who have 
 honored them by leading a virtuous career. As .jEnone 
 slowly unwound fold after fold of the parchment roll, she felt 
 her heart perplexed within her. She could scarcely believe 
 that none of those tales of reckless dissipation were true, 
 for she remembered that some of them had reached her ear 
 attended by evidence so circumstantial that it was impos- 
 sible to reject them ; but, if true, how account for these 
 grand maxims of lofty morality ? What object could their 
 author have in thus uselessly playing the hypocrite, when 
 amatory and bachanalian choruses would not only have 
 been more consonant with his own feelings, but doubtless 
 more' acceptable to the world ? She had not yet learned 
 what it often takes the wisest man a lifetime to discover — 
 that every inconsistency of conduct is not hypocrisy, but 
 that it is one of the most common idiosyncrasies of the 
 mind to write and believe one thing, and as self-approv- 
 ingly to feel and act the reverse. 
 With a sigh she closed the volume, and restored it to its 
 
22 .ffiNONE. 
 
 place within the case. Why ponder upon such things as 
 these ? The real character of the poet Emilius was, after 
 all, a matter of but little consequence to her. Whether the 
 meeting at his house was a wild, reckless orgie, or a mere 
 intellectual gathering of literary genius, it was none the 
 less certain that her lord was tarrying there, away from her 
 side. But perhaps, indeed, even this was a duty which he 
 owed to his fame and station ; and her face brightened up 
 with new hope as the suggestion flashed upon her. It 
 might be that at this feast there would be present s6me poet 
 of lofty epic powers, or historian of wondrous descriptive 
 talent, ranking as the brightest star of Roman literature ; 
 and either of these, if properly conciliated, would doubtless 
 celebrate her lord's exploits so grandly that in future ages 
 his campaign would shine with far greater lustre than if 
 simply committed to parchment in the dry detail of una- 
 dorned fact, and so filed away in the national archives. It 
 was most fitting, therefore, that he should not permit his 
 impatient love for her to allow him to neglect the oppor- 
 tunity of cultivating, by a wise and condescending courtesy, 
 the world-renowned talents of these men, and thereby re- 
 doubling the resplendency of his own bright fame. 
 
 Easily satisfying her mind with this pleasing reasoning, 
 she retired for the night into the innermost apartment — a 
 retreat adorned with every luxury which could gratify pride 
 and administer ^to a cultivated taste. The floor was covered 
 with tesselated marbles of different shades and arranged in 
 ingenious and novel patterns. The ceiling was resplendent 
 with allegorical frescoes by the most celebrated masters of 
 the day. There were glowing paintings upon the walls, 
 
^NONE. 23 
 
 rich tapestries in the windows, embroidered hangings upon 
 the bed. Beside the tables stood bronze figures holding 
 forth lamps ready trimmed and lighted ; fresh flowers had 
 been placed in their allotted vases, and weighed down the 
 air with perfume ; and in a deep recess stood the bath ready 
 filled, and scented with carefully plucked rose-leaves floating 
 upon the water. But all this display of magnificent luxury 
 and elaborate taste, if regarded by her at all, now seemed 
 to affect her with weariness rather than with pleasure. 
 
 Why, as she lay down upon her couch, and prepared to 
 yield herself up to pleasant slumber, did her thoughts wan- 
 der back to the time when poverty instead of luxury had 
 been her lot ? Why did those olden memories of the past so 
 strongly haunt her? They were, perhaps, never entirely 
 absent from her heart ; but now they thronged about her 
 with a force that would not bear repression. Perhaps it 
 was that the very magnificence and pomp of power of which 
 she was now the centre, recalled the memory of the distant 
 past, by virtue of strong contrast alone ; perhaps that the 
 unsatisfied longing and vague foreboding of her soul neces- 
 sarily impressed upon her the consciousness that wealth and 
 honor alone cannot give perfect happiness, and thereby nat- 
 urally led her thoughts back to the time when she had 
 found true contentment in poverty and loneliness. How- 
 ever that might be, now, as she closed her eyes and shut 
 out the view of the costly adornments around her, more 
 vividly than ever before were pictured to her mind the 
 scenes of her childhood : her father's cottage on the out- 
 skirts of Ostia — the olive-grove upon the slope behind — the 
 road-side well, where the villagers would sometimes gather 
 
24 iE N N B . 
 
 about some inyalided soldier from the German army, and 
 listen to his tale^ of the last campaign — and in front, the 
 bay, sparkling in the bright glare of the sun, and burdened 
 with the corn-freighted ships of Alexandria. 
 
 And there, too, was the old wave- worn rock — ^the scene of 
 her life's only romance — where, stealing out from her fa- 
 ther's cabin at the evening hour, and seating herself so close 
 to the water-line that the spray of the tideless sea would 
 dash up and bathe her naked feet, she would wait in all in- 
 nocence for the coming of the young sailor from Samos. 
 How rapidly those hours used to pass 1 How pleadingly, 
 on the last evening, he had knelt beside her, with his arm 
 resting upon her knee, and there gazing up into her face, 
 had asked her for ono long tress of hair 1 , How foolish she 
 had been to give it to him ; and how earnestly he had 
 vowed that he would come back some day, no longer poor 
 and forlorn, but in his own two-masted vessel, with full 
 banks of oars, manned by the slaves whom he would cap- 
 ture, and would then bear her away unto his own home 1 
 And how, like a silly girl, she had believed him, as though 
 wandering sailor-boys ever did come back to seek the lov- 
 ing hearts which had trusted them ! And so the year had 
 passed away, and, as she might well have known from the 
 first, he had not returned. Nor was it to her regret ; for 
 but a little afterwards the youthful patrician, already flushed 
 with budding honors, had chanced to meet her ; had loved 
 her with a generous passion, lifting him above all sordid 
 calculation about wealth or social differences, and had 
 taught her in turn to bestow-upon him an affection more 
 true and absorbing than she had yet believed her heart 
 
^NONE. 25 
 
 was able to contain. And so her first romantio dream had 
 ended, as all such childish dreams are apt to end. Let it 
 go. Her heart had found its true refuge ; she could well 
 look back upon the past without regret, and smile at the 
 youthful fancies connected with it. 
 
 One prayer to the gods — a further special invocation 
 to her favorite goddess, who at the foot of the couch 
 stretched forth marble arms lovingly towards her — and then 
 the silver tinkling of the little courtyard fountain lulled 
 her softly to sleep. 
 
 2 
 
26 -SJNONB. 
 
 CHAPTEE III. 
 
 The thoughts of ^none followed her into sleep, and 
 colored her dreams with pleasant memories of the past ; 
 and when the morning sun, pouring its beams through the 
 window, awakened her, there was a momentary struggle 
 before she could throw off the fancies of the night and 
 realize that she was no longer in her cottage home. But 
 distinct perception soon returned as she glanced around her 
 and recognized the paintings which adorned her chamber, 
 and the marble goddess still holding forth a welcoming 
 hand, as though in g:feeting for the return of another day. 
 
 Throwing open the window, she sat down for a moment 
 to enjoy the soft breeze, which, laden with perfume, came 
 gambolling fresh from the Alban Hills. The window at 
 which she had placed herself looked out upon a central 
 courtyard, formed by the intersection of the main body 
 of the palace at right angles with the two wings. This 
 court was paved from one side to the other with marble 
 flags of different shades, excepting in the middle, where 
 played the fountain — a circular basin of water upon a rock, 
 in the centre of which two bronze satyrs struggled for a 
 stork, from whose uplifted bill the supplying stream spout- 
 ed forth. From the end of each wing of the palace the 
 line of the sides was continued by a straight stone wall 
 of considerable height, leading across the whole breath of 
 the Cselian Hill to the slope of its further side, and in- 
 
^NONB. 27 
 
 closing an area thickly planted with such flowers, shrub- 
 bery, and trees, as the taste of the period considered most 
 essential to a well-appointed garden. 
 
 For the moment, the central court was almost deserted, 
 the 6nly appearance of life being a little Nubian slave, who 
 sat upon the coping of the fountain, an* lazily pldyed with 
 a tame stork. But all at once ^none heard mingled voices, 
 and distinguished among them the tones of her husband — 
 deeper than the others, and marked with that quicker and 
 more decided accent acquired by a long course of undis- 
 puted authority. At first the sounds seemed stationary, 
 as\ though the speakers were -tarrying in one place for 
 discussion ; but in a moment they approached nearer, and 
 the disputants stood in full sight updn a balcony which 
 ran around the interior wall of the palace and overhung 
 the sides of the court. 
 
 Foremost and tallest of the group stood Sergius Vanno,' 
 recognizable at once by his athletic and graceful figure, 
 reflective face, commanding eye, bright with intelligence, , 
 and his agreeable, refined, and attractive presence, as the 
 leading spirit of the group. At his side leaned the poet 
 Emilius, whose weak and slender figure, and mild, girlish 
 expression would hardly appear to sustain the reputation 
 he enjoyed of devoting half his time to the invention and 
 elaboration of new forms of profligacy, and thereby carry- 
 ing his exploits into realms of vice hitherto undiscovered, 
 even in that age of unbridled indulgence. Behind these 
 stood three others — a captain of the prsetorian guard, a trib- 
 une of the law, and a comedian of the school of Plautus 
 — each probably carrying the palm of excellence in his espe- 
 
28 ^ N N B . 
 
 cial calling, and all of them doubtless endowed with superior 
 capacities as boon companions in a night-long revel. They 
 had evidently tut just left the banqueting hall, and bore in- 
 dications of having passed a somewhat unquiet night, 
 though in different degrees' ; for while the captain and 
 comedian still staggered confusedly, and displayed hag- 
 gard faces and disordered dresses, the superior tact, con- 
 stitutional strength, or recuperative powers of the others 
 enabled them to maintain such a demeanor of proper so- 
 briety, that but for a slight flush and the companionship 
 in which they_w6re placed, their late excesses might have 
 passed unnoticed. 
 
 " It was the choice of all the slaves, both male and 
 female, I tell you," said the comedian, evidently resuming 
 an unfinished dispute. "The choice of all the slaves, 
 Sergius." 
 
 " Hear you now this man !" exclaimed Sergius, turning 
 towards his friend Emilius with a quiet smile. -" Thrice 
 already have I told him the truth of the matter, and still 
 he persists ; well knowing that, if now he can scarcely 
 sustain himself from falling over into the area below, he 
 qertainly could not, three hours ago, have been able to 
 tell what play he made, or whether he. made any play at 
 all. Nay, Bassus, it was only of the male slaves that I 
 spoke." 
 
 " Yet listen to me," insisted the comedian, placing his 
 hand upon the other's shoulder, and leaning heavily upon 
 . him. " You do not deny that we gamed 1" 
 
 " Of a surety I do not." 
 
 "Nor that I won money of you ?" 
 
^ N O N E . 29 
 
 " Ten sestertia. I acknowledge it." 
 
 " Nay, twenty sestertia, was it not 1" 
 
 " Twenty sestertia be, it, then. What matters the 
 amount, when I paid you upon the moment, and you 
 now have the sum, whatever , it may be, in your own 
 purse 1" 
 
 " True, true," rejoined the other, nodding his head with 
 an air of sage gravity ; " whatever it was, of a certainty 
 I now have it. And then, Sergius, you offered against the 
 ten — no, the twenty sestertia — to play the choice of all 
 your new slaves." ' 
 
 " Of my new male slaves, certainly." 
 
 " No, - of the slaves both male and female. I will tell 
 you how it is that I so especially recollect. It was be- 
 cause I had heard from our lawgiver here, about the beau- 
 ~ tiful Samian girl you have borne hojne among your share 
 of the spoils. You did not think, perhaps, that I knew of 
 her ; but when I offered to throw the dice, I held her in my 
 mind. And then, when I had won, and told you that I 
 would select her, you said — " 
 
 " Exactly what I had said to you before, that you could 
 take your choice from the male slaves," interrupted the 
 other impatiently. " And I have brought you directly 
 -hither to make your selection, for fear that when you be- 
 came sober you would forget the matter altogether, and 
 thereby cheat yourself out of a fairly won prize. Am I not 
 right, comrades ? Was not the play as I have stated it ?" 
 
 " Neither more nor less," the poet answered ; and the 
 praetorian captain spoke to the same effect. The comedian 
 still looked unconvinced, and, for the moment, gazed in- 
 
30 ^NONB. 
 
 quiringly from one to the other, in the hope that some 
 newer recollection would come to the mind of either of them 
 and lead to a recantation. But in that desire he was 
 disappointed, and at last he reluctantly gave up the con- 
 test, not daring to protract it longer for fear of pro- 
 voking a quarrel, and thereby being thrust out of the 
 society to which he was aware his social talents, counter- 
 acting his low birth and calling, were his sole passport. 
 And after all, though he had too carelessly made his wager, 
 he had won twenty sestertia and a male slave, aiid that was 
 something. 
 
 " Well, be it so," he assented, with a sigh. " A male 
 slave, since you say it. I had supposed I had spoken 
 more particularly, but it seems that my poor brain was 
 careless and at fault. Only bring the slaves hither quickly, 
 that I may choose and go home, for I must play Castorex 
 this morning, and this head of mine seems likely to split." 
 
 "Let it split, then,'' retorted Sergius with a laugh. "It 
 may save our cracking it some day with a goblet. Ho, 
 there, Drumo !" 
 
 He was not obliged to call a second time, for, at the first 
 ring of his voice, the obedient armor-bearer emerged from 
 one of the lower entrances into the court. He also, as well 
 as his master, had been convivially celebrating his return, 
 and now bore the evidences of his frolic in a sad combina- 
 tion of inflamed features, tangled hair, and disordered cloth- 
 ing. 
 
 " What ho, master ?" he cried, stretching his huge limbs 
 in a yawn and looking up. " Am I wanted ?" 
 
 " You have been drinking," said Sergius ; '' go to the 
 
^ N O N E . - 31 
 
 fountain basin there and cleanse yourself. If there were 
 fish in it, I would feel half inclined to cast you in to feed 
 them. After that, come back to me." 
 
 The giant grinned, knowing that his master placed too 
 high a value upon him ever to make a dinner of him for the 
 carp, though he might now and then inflict a stripe or two 
 in anger upon his broad shoulders. Then kneeling down at 
 the fountain, he quickly splashed the water into his face and 
 eyes, ran one finger from his forehead to the crown of his 
 head in order to part his disordered locks, pulled away a 
 loose straw from behind his neck, gave his tumbled tunic 
 one jerk to straighten it, and, with the air of a person who 
 had made an elaborate toilet, and could afford to be well 
 satisfied with the result, presented himself for inspection. 
 
 " So I Were my new slaves sent in last night ?" 
 
 The armor-bearer nodded. 
 
 " The whole allotment ?" 
 
 " I suppose so, master. Fifty there should have been, 
 the lictor said, when he brought them, iut one had died, 
 and they had thrown him into the Tiber to the fishes. Ho, 
 ho, master, we shall all go one day to feed the fishes or the 
 dogs, or the worms, both you and I alike." 
 
 " Silence, you hound !" said Sergius, more by way of 
 habit than because he really minded a familiarity to which 
 he had gradually grown accustomed. 
 
 "The others came a little before midnight, and I locked 
 them up below," the Gaul added, pointing to a low range of 
 buildings at the foot of the garden. " They are a well- 
 lookipg lot, master, but among them all you. will not find 
 one to take my place ; so, for this time I am safe, and can 
 
32 iS N O N B . 
 
 yet say and do what I please. Ho, ho ! And here is the 
 list of them which the messenger brought.'' 
 
 " Never mind the list. It is doubtless all correct," said 
 Sergius, waving the -papyrus aside. " Go, now, and bring 
 the slaves hither.'' 
 
 The man nodded, and taking a large key from a nail over 
 his head, disappeared down the garden walk, and in a few 
 moments returned, driving before him the whole body of 
 captives which had fallen to the share of his master. As 
 he had reported, they were of good quality, the best of the 
 prisoners of war having naturally been reserved for. the 
 commander of the expedition. The men were mostly stout 
 and athletic, while the women were of healthy and properly 
 agreeable appearance. Of the whole number there were 
 none who seemed to be at all sickly or ill-favored ; while 
 the only one who exhibited any signs of deformity was a 
 dwarf, whose withered and twisted figure imparted to him 
 that peculiar grotesque and ape-like appearance which, at 
 that period, was certain to commend him to the taste of 
 wealthy purchasers, and render him of more value than a 
 man of correct proportions. Moreover, as a general thing, 
 the captives seemed more cheerful than they had been the 
 day before, having had the advantage of several hours' rest 
 and of better food than had fallen to their lot at any time 
 during the journey. There were a few who manifested sor- 
 row at having been separated from relatives or friends with 
 whom they had succeeded in travelling to the very gates of 
 the city ; and some others, as yet unbroken to misfortune, 
 maintained a rebellious and intractable demeanor. But the 
 majority had already made up tbeir minds that slavery was 
 
.s; N N E . 33 
 
 henceforth their inevitable fate, and that their highest future 
 happiness must be looked for in its alleviation rather than 
 in its abolition ; and they now appeared to take pleasure in 
 the thought that their fortune had led them to a -wealthjr 
 household, where they would probably experience kind 
 treatment and have easy tasks allotted to them. 
 
 Now, having reached the paved court, the captives rested 
 and awaited the inspection of their owner — some sitting- 
 upon the marble border of the fountain, some standing by 
 in groups, and through a sort of sympathy holding each 
 others' hands, as though that would give protection. A few 
 gazed moodily upon the ground ; and one or two, over- 
 whelmed with sorrow or nervous apprehension, quietly 
 wept. But the greater portion, impressed with a dirti con- 
 sciousness that their future lot might depend upon their 
 present conduct and appearance, endeavored to assume an 
 air of pleased satisfaction, and thereby possibly win the 
 favorable notice of the group which stood surveying them 
 from the balcony, or at the least the friendly compassion of 
 the older slaves of the household, who began to pour forth 
 from the different doors upon the ground-floor of the palace, 
 and join unbidden in the inspection. Most of these, in the 
 early days of their captivity, had stood up in the centre of 
 similar gaping and gazing crowds, and now in their turn 
 they sated their curiosity upon the new-comers. A few, re- 
 membering their own sorrows of those former times, seemed 
 compassionate ; many manifested careless indifference; some 
 wondered whether enough of the present re-enforcement 
 would be retained to materially lighten their own labors ; 
 and others, who had been known to fail in attention to their 
 
 3* 
 
34 ^NONE. 
 
 peculiar departments of industry, trembled lest their places 
 might new be supplied by the new-comers, and themselves 
 be again driven off to market. Whatever their thoughts 
 and feelings, however, no one ventured to approach too near, 
 or speak aloud, excepting the armor-bearer, who, as the 
 privileged slave of the household as well as the marshal of 
 the occasion, moved hither and thither among the captives, 
 encouraging some with rude jokes, shoving others back or 
 forward into suitable positions, and generally endeavoring 
 to set forth the merits of the whole mass in as favorable a 
 light as possible. 
 
 " Now stand forward wher^ the noble imperator and his 
 friends can see you," was his command to a well-featured, 
 strong-limbed Rhodian. " Do you think to better your lot by 
 slinking out of sight among the women, and so perhaps be 
 sent off unnoticed to the market, and there be purchased for 
 hard labor in the quarry-pits ? Who knows but that if my 
 master seeS'you, he may make a gladiator of you ; and then 
 you can fight before emperors and consuls." 
 
 " What care I for your master ?" retorted the man. " Let 
 him give me back my wife and my child, w;hom I yesterday 
 had, and who now are gone." 
 
 The armor-bearer shrugged his shoulders. 
 
 " Is that all ?" he said. " Wives are plenty in this city of 
 Eome. When I first came from Gaul, I, too, had a wife, and, 
 like you, lost her. What ttien ? I suppose that she is hap- 
 py, wherever she may be ; and I — I have not allowed my- 
 self to be lonely since. But neither did I let myself fall 
 behind, when I stood in the market ; but I pressed forward 
 and struck upon my chest, and called to the highborn and 
 
^ N N E . 35 
 
 the rich to look upon me, andseeiow a man could be made, 
 and what he could be good for. And here am I now, a slave, 
 indeed — that cannot be helped — but for all that, a ruler over 
 the other slaves, and my master's favorite and companion. 
 By the immortal gods I there is more manliness in yonder 
 dwarf, with his open face, than in you, with your whimper- 
 ing and your tears. I will call him forward to teach you a 
 lesson how to act." 
 
 At the first beck the dwarf pressed forward with a smile, 
 alternately stretching up to make the most of his dimin- 
 utive proportions, and then bowing low to crave the good 
 will of the spectators. His appearance brought him instant 
 commendation ; and more particularly did the prajtorian 
 captain break forth into expressions of appreciation. 
 
 " A proper dwarf ! a most excellent dwarf I Smaller and 
 more ugly by a quarter than one which I have known to be 
 sold for forty sestertia I And see, Bassus, how he bows and 
 rubs his hands, and shows his teeth at. yourself. He has, 
 perhaps, been the buffoon in a Grecian theatre, and in you 
 now recognizes a brother in the art. Take him, therefore, 
 for your choice. At the very least, he will be of value to 
 carry your bag of plays before you, and he may even help 
 you ^ct." 
 
 The comedian forced a sickly smile upon his features, not 
 daring to quarrel with his companion, yet not insensible to 
 the sneering tone with which he was addressed. He had, 
 at the first, been struck with the dwarf, and half inclined to 
 choose him. But now the mocking speech deterred him. 
 
 "You are disposed to be merry," he said ; " nor do you- 
 reason well. It is not an ape that an actor wants to carry his 
 
36 ^NONE. 
 
 plays. There are enough such to listen to them. I will 
 leave the dwarf, therefore, for you to purchase. Perhaps, 
 after all, there may be a place found for him somewhere in 
 your own household. I will make another selection for my- 
 self" 
 
 And descending- from the piazza, he moved in among the 
 captives for the purpose of entering upon a more careful 
 inspection. Eager as he was at all times to make the best 
 of a bargain, he was the more especially anxious now ; for 
 the contemptuous tones of his companions rankled in his 
 heart, and he felt that the more he evinced a capacity to 
 benefit .himself, the more he would be likely to disappoint 
 them. Passing deliberately about the slaves, therefore, he 
 scrutinized each face and form before him with the most ex- 
 act attention ; carefully lifting the eyelid of one, and exam- 
 ining the teeth of another — now pressing his knuckles into 
 an expanded chest, then twisting a muscular arm — causing 
 some to stoop, and others to bend back — and generally 
 practising all those arts and expedients which a professional 
 slave-dealer would employ to guard himself against impo- 
 sition. Nor was it until the lapse of many minutes that he 
 settled upon his prize. 
 
 " I will take this man," he said, dragging the Rhodian 
 forth by the shoulder. " He shall be my slave." 
 
 "It is well ; take him," responded Sergius, in his most 
 courtly tone. And for the moment or two,,during which 
 his companions yet tarried, he maintained a demeanor so 
 studied and controlled, that it would have required a keen 
 glance to detect in his face his bitter sense of disappoint- 
 ment at the selection which the comedian had made. 
 
MNONE. 37 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 As Sergius turned and entered the" house, those who had 
 seen him saluted as the favorite of the emperor, and the idol 
 of the crowd, and thence had believed unbounded happiness 
 must be his never-varying lot, would have been astonished 
 to know how many things there were which rankled pain- 
 fully in his heart, and, for the moment, made him discon- 
 tented and fretful. 
 
 Thoroughly jealous respecting his military fame, he was 
 not unsuspicious that the cheers of the crowd upon his ova- 
 tion had been elicited more by the perfection of the pageant- 
 ry than by a proper appreciation of his own merits ; while it 
 was certain that the Senate, though meeting him with the cus- 
 tomary congratulations, had delivered them with more form 
 than enthusiasm. And though the emperdi: had given au- 
 dience, he had bestowed no new htfnors upon him. To these 
 disappointments was added the unhappy, self-accusing con- 
 sciousness of having failed in duty to his own dignity, by 
 passing the night in wild revelry, and among companions, 
 many of whom were beneath him in -every quality except 
 their talent for ribald jesting and buffoonery. Moreover, 
 though reputed wealthy, he was at present pressed for 
 money, and had added to his embarrassments by losing at 
 the gaming-table daring the past night more than he could 
 well afford to part with ; while, to sum up other vexations, 
 the comedian, Bassus, had not only increased the loss by 
 
38 ^NONE. 
 
 selecting the most valuable slave, but had performed the 
 action in a cool and calculating manner, which was particu- 
 larly exasperating. 
 
 " The low. bufifooii 1" Sergius muttered to himself. " Who 
 would have thought that, half drunken as he was, he would 
 have had the wit to select a slave worth double the sum 
 which had been staked against him, and one whom I had 
 obtained with such trouble, and for my own purposes ? Can 
 it be that he pretended his intoxication the more easily to 
 outwit me ? I had no fear, but believed that he would he 
 sure to select some slim youth who cotild be-taught to play 
 the flute before him, or act as cup-bearer. What demon put 
 it into his head so suddenly to look for bone and muscle 
 rather than for girlish graces ?" 
 
 This last suspicion, of having been made the victim of artful 
 dissimulation, added fuel to his vexation, more especially as, 
 turning his head, and glancing into the courtyard, he saw 
 the comedian slipping through a side passage, and the Rho- 
 dian obediently following at his heels. This filled up the 
 measure of Sergius' wrath. To his excited fancy the actor 
 bore upon his face an insultingly satisfied smirk of tri- 
 umph, while the Rhodian appeared larger and stronger than 
 ever. With an exclamation of unavailing anger, Sergius 
 pushed open the door, and stood in the presence of his wife. 
 
 It was into the dining-hall that he had plunged. Upon 
 a small table were placed the wine and bread and fruits 
 which formed the customary morning meal among the richer 
 Romans ; and beside the table stood ^Enone, in an attitude 
 in which hope, and fear, and surprise, and disappointment 
 were equally blended. 
 
^ N O N E . _ 39 
 
 ' Clad in the manner which she knew had always best 
 pleased his fancy, wearing the adornments which, as his 
 gifts, he would most naturally prefer to see upon her, with 
 her curling locks parted as in former days he had liked her 
 to dress them, even striving to impart to her features the 
 peculiar radiant expression which, in other times, had most 
 won his heart — she had impatiently awaited his approacli, 
 with a vague fear whispering poisonous surmises to her 
 soul, but yet with a joyful and hopeful assurance of good 
 predominating over all. ,As soon as these friends of his had 
 departed — she had said to herself — he would no longer de- 
 lay coming to her. He would meet her with extended arms 
 and the s'ame joyous welcome as of old. He would utter 
 kind and pleasant words expressive of his happiness, and 
 would fold her to his heart. There would she nestle and 
 forget her foolish fears and suspicions of the past night, and 
 would only remember that she was loved. As, however, she 
 now saw the frown upon his face, her heart and courage 
 failed ; and in proportion as she had previously fortified her 
 mind with hopeful confidence, a terrible reaction of appre- 
 hension overcame her. Could it be that the angry look was 
 for her, and that it could be justified by any word that she 
 had ever spoken, or any duty that she had neglected ? With 
 one ha^d lightly resting upon the table, her right foot 
 thrown forward in impulsive readiness to spring into his ex- 
 tended arms, but her whole form drooping and shrinking 
 with dismay, her face pale, and the smile which she had 
 called upon it now faintly and painfully flickering in a 
 deathlik-e manner about her whitened lips, as it glided 
 from her control and began to give place to an utter 
 
40 JE N N E . 
 
 and undisguised fear, she stood awaiting his first word or 
 action. 
 
 " Ha, ^none I" i 
 
 " My lord—" 
 
 Then remembering what was due to her upon their first 
 meeting, he smoothed the frown from off his face, held out 
 his arms, and tenderly embraced her, uttering kind and lov- 
 ing words. It was the same gesture with which he had 
 parted from her when, six months before, the State had 
 called upon him to arouse from the ease and tranquillity of 
 his wedded li|e and do new service upon the field. Those 
 were the same gentle and affectionate words which he had 
 been wont td utter. And yet to her quickened apprehension, 
 urged on by some secret instinct, it seemed as though the 
 soul of the tender greeting was gone, leaving but the mere 
 form behind. Could it be that during those few months of 
 absence he had learned to think less dearly of her ? At the 
 thought, the last faint gleams of the flickering smile died 
 away from her face ; while he, unobservant of her diskess, 
 and still goaded by the remembrance of his losses, released 
 her from his embrace and threw himself heavily down upon 
 the nearest lounge. 
 
 " I am thirsty," he said. " Give me some drink." 
 
 She poured some wine into a goblet, and timidly presented 
 it to his lips. The liquid, cooled with snow from the moun- 
 tains, was refreshing to his palate, and he drank it to the 
 last drop. As he parted with the goblet — ^rather tossing it 
 away than setting it down — ^he noticed how she stSod before 
 him with whitened face and frightened features, and with 
 the attitude of a shrinking slave rather than of a wife joyous 
 
Ho be of service. His heart smote him for his negligent 
 greeting, and he rose up irom the lounge and placed his 
 arm about her. 
 
 "Not with you, ^none, am I vexed,'' he said, partly com- 
 prehending the cause of her emotion. And drawing her 
 nearer, he commenced toying with her waving locks, telling 
 her how for months he had been longing to meet her, and 
 how her looks more than ever delighted him, and otherwise 
 uttering such pleasant and reassuring words as soonest 
 came into his mind. As she began to perceive that it was 
 not for any fault of hers that he had displayed anger, her 
 face gradually lost its expression of dread. But still she 
 could not fail to notice that the words which he spoke were 
 not such as ai'e commonly prompted by a true and unpremedi- 
 tated affection ; but were rather the labored and soulless 
 result of a mere good-natured desire to mate atonement for 
 a neglect, and were uttered in all the careless spirit with 
 which one tries to soothe an improperly aggrieved child ; 
 and the old smile but feebly flayed upon her features, 
 struggle with it as earnestly as she could. 
 
 "Nay, not' at your sweet face is my anger excited, 
 jEnone," he said ; " but at that scurvy dog, Bassus. He 
 should himself bo a slave and the companion of slaves, were 
 his true station meted out to him.'' 
 
 " He with whom you passed the night ?" suggested; 
 .^none. 
 
 " Ay, he was one of us," Sergius answered, taking a posi- 
 tion nearer the table, and commencing to pick off a crumb 
 of bread as the incentive to a more extended repast. " He 
 was with us, as there always will be some rude and unman- 
 
42 ^NONE. 
 
 nerly intruder in every company ; but there were also others, 
 the associates of Emilius. There was Sotus, the Egyptian, 
 a learned astronomer ; and Cyope the renowned Greek dram- 
 atist ; and Spoletius, who is now writing a history of the 
 empire, and, if what he says is true, has already brought 
 his work down to the time of the Emperor Nero — " 
 
 " And will carry it on until he reaches the present day ? 
 And will then, in their proper place, tell about your achieve- 
 ments, my lord ?" exclaimed ^none, a flush of expectation 
 glowing upon her face, as she thought that here were her 
 conjectures of the preceding evening about to be realized. 
 
 " Ay !" responded Sergius ; "I presume that he will speak 
 of me and of what you dignify as my achievements, foolishly 
 fond child ; and therefore it was meet that I should not neg- 
 lect the opportunity of being in his presence, in order that 
 he might speak well of me rather than the reverse. Other- 
 wise, you well know that I would have preferred to let rev- 
 elling have the go-by, and to have come at once to gather 
 you to my heart. But we men, whom the world calls cele- 
 brated, must be watchful, and learn to resign pleasure to 
 duty, and guard our fame, or else it may go out like a 
 wasted lamp, and leave us in the darkness of oblivion. We 
 cannot spare our time to give free scope to our love, as 
 though we were poor and unknown." 
 
 Mnone reproached herself for her suspicions. Surely she 
 had done wrong in distrusting him for the coldness of his 
 greeting. He may have meant, nothing but love and kind- 
 ness, and have been weighed down by cares and anxieties 
 which she could not comprehend. Had he not said that 
 something had made him angry ? He, the great imperator 
 
^ N N B . 43 
 
 to have been ruffled by the conduct of a low comedian, 
 whose company his interest obliged him to tolerate 1 She 
 would yet be patient and wait. 
 
 " And not only Spoletius, the historian, but also others, 
 poets and philosophers, whose good-will it is proper to 
 secure, and whose conversation would be improving to 
 the gods themselves," continued Sergius, almost blushing 
 as he remembered how little philosophy had been spoken 
 during the past night, excepting that shallow doctrine 
 which inculcates full enjoyment of the passing pleasures 
 of the world, lest death might come and too suddenly 
 end them ; and how little poetry had been recited, ex- 
 cept as roared forth in the form of bacchanalian choruses. 
 " And even this Bassus it were worth my while to con- 
 descend to, lest the notion might seize ■ him to satirize 
 me upon the public stage. And it was ■ to conciliate him 
 that I lost to him twenty sestertia and a well-favored slave. 
 May it not be that I paid too high a price for his friend- 
 ship, and hence have a right to be angry?" 
 
 " But let my lord reflect that he has many slaves — 
 more than he well can find use for ; and that, therefore, 
 one less may not be of great consequence to him.'' 
 
 " Nay, but such a slave 1" responded Sergius ; " tall, 
 almost, as my armor-bearer, and strong as an elephant 1 
 A man who was worth to me all those otjiers, thrice over, 
 for the use to which I could have put him. The rest will 
 doubtless be of good account in their way. Some of them 
 will go and dig in my quarries, and a few will be exposed 
 in the market, and will bring their proper price. But this 
 Rhodian — listen 1 You know that in a few weeks the new 
 
44 iENONE. 
 
 amphitheatre of our emperor will be opened with grand 
 spectacles lasting many days. At my audience with him 
 last evening, he spoke thereupon, and of the wild beasts he 
 had sent for to give dignity to the occasion ; but of this 
 anon. You know that for months all Rome has been pre- 
 paring for that event ?" 
 
 JEnone nodded assent. Even had she desired, she could 
 not have remained ignorant that the great colossus of all 
 amphitheatres was approaching completion, since, from her 
 window, she could look down the Appian Way and watch 
 every stone being laid, while, in all societies, the magni- 
 tude and magnificence of the approaching games were 
 the theme of universal conversation. 
 
 " Well," continued Sergius, " months ago — ^I hardly 
 remember how many — I wagered with the proconsul Sar- 
 desu8 that I would furnish for the games the superior 
 gladiator of the two. Fifteen purses of a hundred ses- 
 teftia each ; a large sum, but the larger the better, since 
 I had my armor-bearer in my mind, and felt certain to 
 win. But since then, I have^ become attached to this 
 Drumo. The dog has twice saved my life, and hence has 
 become too precious to be risked ; for though he would 
 most likely win the day, yet a chance thrust might 
 destroy him at the end. I therefore looked around for a 
 substitute, and found him — this Rhodian slave. Day after 
 day I marked him in the opposite ranks, fighting against 
 us, and I gave orders to capture him alive. Twice we 
 thought we had secured him, and as often did he break 
 away, killing many of our men. But at last the com- 
 mander of one of my cohorts obtained possession of his 
 
JS N N E . 45 
 
 \«-ife and five children, and sent Mm word that each day, 
 until he delivered himself up, one of them should be put 
 to death." 
 
 " Surely that thing was not done ?" exclaimed* iEnone, 
 horror-struck. 
 
 " As I live, it was not ordered by me, nor did I learn 
 of the scheme until it was too late to arrest it," respond- 
 ed Sergius ; " else would I have forbidden it. But what 
 would you expect.? War has its pi-actices, and mercy 
 is not exactly one of them. And cruelties will happen, 
 do what we may. Whatever transpired, therefore, was the 
 work of the commander of my first cdhort, to whom I had 
 given directions to take the man alive, and who knew that 
 it must be done, and without troubling me about the pro- 
 cess. Perhaps you do not care to hear the rest ?" 
 
 " Go on," said ^none, shuddering with a sickening ap- 
 prehension of what was to come. 
 
 " Well, the first day his oldest child was slain, and the 
 body sent to him ; and the next day the second one slain, 
 and in like manner sent to him ; and so on until but his 
 wife and one child were left. Then he came in and gave 
 himself up." 
 
 "And this brave man — fighting for his country — you 
 have made a slave of I" exclaimed -iEnone, impetuously. 
 " He has been stripped of his family one by one, and now 
 you would place him in the arena, to be the victim of wild 
 beasts, or at the best, of other slaves I" 
 
 " What else would you wish ? The man is of a warlike 
 nature ; and it were better for him to bravely contend 
 for his life in the presence of the emperor himself, than 
 
46 wE N O N E . 
 
 ignominiously to wear it out in the base labor of the 
 quarries. And I will tell you what I meant to have done. 
 I know where are his wife and remaining child, with whom 
 he yesterday entered Rome ; and if in the amphitheatre he 
 had won the victory for me, I would have restored them 
 to him and given him his freedom besides. But all .that 
 is passed now. In the heat of the moment I forg'ot 
 hira, and suffered this drunken dog, Bassus, to take his 
 choice ; and he has had too good an eye for what is 
 valuable not to select the Rhodian. Strange, indeed, 
 that I should have been so careless. But throughout 
 all, I never dreamed that his taste would lead him to do 
 more than choose some slight-built boy, who could assist 
 him in his trade. Once, indeed, I feared for the moment 
 that he would select amiss, and take a rarely precious 
 dwarf, whom, both for his appearance and for his know- 
 ledge of armor, I had reserved as a gift for your father ; 
 and when that danger was past, I breathed freer, not cal- 
 culating upon any further mischance." 
 
 Mnone remained silent. Ready as she was at all 
 times to give her utmost sympathy to her husband for 
 the slightest annoyance which he might experience, it 
 seemed to her now that his complaining was puerile and 
 unjust, so utterly had the sense of his disappointment 
 been swallowed up, in her thoughts, by the real and 
 tragic woe of the Rhodian captive. Finding day after 
 day his dead children laid at his very door — then sep- 
 arated rudely from all who were left — and in the end 
 brought chained into the arena, and obliged to fight to 
 the death for the pleasure of his conquerors, and per- 
 
-aSNONE. 47 
 
 laps against his own countrymen ; — why should such 
 things be ? ^none was no nerveless creature to faint 
 at the sight of blood. The education of all Romans of 
 that day was adapted to a far different result, and she 
 could look with enjoyment upon the contests of wild 
 boasts, or even view without disapprobation the strug- 
 gles of gladiators trained to their' work as to a profes- 
 sion, and, of their own free will and with full knowledge, 
 taking its risks upon themselves. And yet, for all that, 
 s^e could not but feel that every hour there were being 
 enacted around her, and as a part of the daily workings 
 of the social system, abuses of power, which, like the 
 present, nothing could justify ; and she wondered whether 
 it would last forever, or whether, on the contrary, the 
 outraged gods would not some day arise and pour down 
 upon this imperial Eome the vengeance due to the op- 
 pressed. 
 
 Sergius partially read her thoughts, and set himself at 
 work to reverse their current and turn it into a more 
 clieerful channel. Drawing his seat closer to her, he 
 began to speak of more pleasant topics, -telling of the 
 enlivening incidents of his campaign, rehearsing the ex- 
 ploits of those about him, and dwelling upon the few 
 occasions in which, by some unusual departure from mar- 
 tial customs, mercy had been shown to the weak and 
 helpless, and captives who were not fft for slaves had 
 not been crucified. The gift of fascination was one of his 
 distinguishing traits ; and when he chose, he could charm 
 with his winning speech the most obdurate and unloving. 
 Therefore, as he now softly whispered these narrations 
 
48 ^ N N E . 
 
 into ^none's ears, mingling gentle words of endearment 
 ■with them, it was not long before she began to yield to the 
 pleasant influence, and was almost ready to believe that 
 she had judged rashly, and that every thing upon earth was 
 not so very wrong. Why, after all, should she presume 
 to criticise matters which did not arouse the discontent 
 of the wisest of men ? And if the gods felt really out- 
 raged, why did they let their thunders sleep so long ? 
 At the least, it was not the duty of herself, a weak girl, 
 to strive to right the world. Her only domain must be 
 her lord's heart — her only rule of life, his will. 
 
 Leaning upon his sho.ulder, and looking up into his 
 face as she listened, she thought upon the old times, 
 when she had first met him, and how he had then, as 
 now, so successfully exerted his powers of charming, that 
 it had seemed as though no mere earthly love could be 
 good enough reward for him. Could it be that in her 
 distrust she had been the victim of a momentary delusion, 
 and that he would always exert himself hereafter, as 
 now, to please her ? Might it not be, after all, that this 
 great happiness, with its tender whisperings and caress- 
 es, would ever continue unbroken, as in past times ? 
 
 " But stay !" he suddenly exclaimed, in the tone of one 
 newly awakened to the existence of a fact whose com- 
 parative unimportance had led to its forgetfulness by 
 him. " Let not my own losses make me indifferent to 
 your pleasure, love, for I have not been Bo. For you, 
 and you alone, I have reserved a gift fit for the palace 
 of the Offisars." 
 
 " A gift, my lord. And for me ?" 
 
iE N N E . 49 
 
 " Yes ; but ask me no questions now. You shall see 
 it to-movrow. A few hours only of mystery and waiting 
 must yet elapse before I will bring it to you. Until then 
 you can enjoy a woman's pleasure and nurse your greedy 
 curiosity — hopeless of solving the enigma until I myself 
 choose to give the clew." 
 
 3 
 
50 ^NONE. 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 The day wore quietly on, like any other day ; for the con- 
 fusion and turmoil of the ovation were already a half-for- 
 gotten thing of the past, and Rome had again subsided into 
 its usual course. In the earlier hours, a city of well-filled 
 streets, astir and vocal with active and vigorous trade and 
 labor ; then — as the nooutide sun shed from the brazen sky 
 a molten glow, that fell like fire upon the lava pavement, 
 and glanced from polished walls until the whole atmosphere 
 seemed like a furnace — a city seemingly deserted, except 
 by a few slaves, engaged in removing the triumphal arches 
 hung with faded and lifeless flowers, and by a soldier here 
 and there in glistening armor, keeping a lonely watch ; and 
 again — as the sun sank towards the west, and, with the 
 lengthening shadows, the intensity of the heat diminished 
 — a city flooded with wealth and fashion, pouring in con- 
 fused streams hither and thither, through its broadest 
 avenues and forums. Groups of idlers sauntering along to 
 watch the inoccupation of others, and with the prospective 
 bath as the pretence for the stroll — matrons and maidens of 
 high degree, with attendants following them — a rattle of 
 gayly caparisoned chariots, with footmen trotting beside 
 the wheels — guards on horseback — detachments of prse- 
 torian soldiers passing up and down — ^here the car of a 
 senator of the broad purple — there the mouilted escort of a 
 Syrian governor — all that could sp6ak of magnificence, 
 
^NONE. K1 
 
 wealth, and authority, at that hour thronged the pave- 
 ment. 
 
 Leaving the Vanno palace, ^none joined herself to this 
 moving concourse. At her side walked one of her bond- 
 women, and, at a pace or two behind, properly attired, and 
 armed only with a short sword, strode the armor-bearer. 
 Thus attended, she pressed forward along the Appian Way 
 towards the outskirts of the city — past broad palaces and 
 villas, with encircling gardens and open paved courts — 
 past shrubberies, fish-ponds, and statue-crowned terraces — 
 past public baths, through whose broad doorways the 
 people swarmed by hundreds, and whose steps were 
 thronged with waiting slaves ; now stopping until the 
 armor-bearer, running to the front, could make a passage 
 for her through some crowd denser than ordinary — then 
 gliding onward with more rapid pace, as the way became 
 clearer — and again arresting herself for a moment, as the 
 stream of people also tarried to watch the approach of the 
 gorgeous chariot and richly uniformed guards of the Em- 
 peror Titus Vespasian. At length, turning the corner of a 
 pillar-porticoed temple, which stood back from the street, 
 and up the gentle ascent of whose steps a concourse of 
 priests and attendants were forcing a garland-decked bul- 
 lock, unconscious of the sacrificial rites which awaited him 
 within, she stood beyond the surging of the crowd and in 
 a quiet little street. 
 
 It was a narrow avenue, in whose humble architecture 
 brick took the place of stone ; but in no respect mean or 
 filthy, like so many of the streets of similar width in the 
 central portion of the city. Stretching out towards the 
 
52 ^ N N E . 
 
 open country, and not given up to merchandise or slave 
 quarters, its little houses had their gardens and clustering 
 vines about them, supplying with the picturesque vsrhatever 
 was wanting in magnificence, and evidencing a pleasant 
 medium between wealth and poverty. The paved roadway 
 was clean and unbroken ; and far down as the eye could 
 reach no life was to be seen, except a single slave with a 
 fruit-basket balanced upon his head, and near him a group 
 of children at play. 
 
 Passing down this street, jEnone came to a spot where 
 one of the great aqueducts which supplied the city crossed 
 the roadway diagonally with a single span. At the right 
 hand stood a small brick house, built into the nearest arch 
 so snugly that it seemed as though its occupants could 
 almost hear the gurgling of the water flowing overhead 
 from the hills of Albanus. Like the bther -houses in its 
 neighborhood, it had a small courtyard in front, planted with 
 a shrub or two. This was the home of her father, the 
 centurion Porthenus. Stopping here, she was about to 
 enter without warning, according to her usual custom ; but 
 as she advanced, a dwarf whom she recognized as the same 
 which that morning had so eagerly presented himself for 
 notice in the front of her husband's captives, sprang forward, 
 grinned his recognition of the armor-bearer, made another 
 grimace expressive of mingled respect and admiration for 
 herself, threw open the door, and ushered her in with an 
 outburst of ceremonious pride befitting an imperial recep- 
 tion. 
 
 At a back window of the house, from whence the line of 
 aqueduct could be seen for some distance leaping Jiouses and 
 
^ N N E . 53 
 
 streets in its undeviating course to the centre of the city, 
 Sat the centurion. He was a man of medium height, short- 
 necked, and thick-set, with blunted features, and grizzled 
 hair and beard. Two of the fingers of his left hand were 
 wanting, and a broad scar, the trophy of a severe skirmish 
 among the Alemanni, crossed his right cheek and one side 
 of his nose, giving him an expression more curious than 
 pleasing. His general appearance was after the common 
 tj'pe of an old war-worn soldier, rough and unscrupulous 
 by nature, hardened by cam.p life and dissipation, grown 
 cruel by excess of petty authority, overbearing with his in- 
 feriors, jovial and complaisant with his equals, cringing to 
 his superiors, and with an air of discontent overlaying every 
 other expression, as though he were continually tortured 
 with the belief that his success in life had not equalled his 
 merits. As ^Enone entered, he was bending over a shield, 
 and earnestly engaged in burnishing its brazen mouldings. 
 At his side leaned a short sword, awaiting similar attention, 
 and in a rack beside him were a number of weapons of dif- 
 ferent varieties and sizes, which had already submitted to 
 his restorative skill, and now shone like glass. 
 
 Hearing her light step, he looked up, arose, flung the 
 shield into a corner, and with a roar, as though ordering a 
 battalion, called out to the grinning dwarf, who had followed 
 her in : 
 
 " Ho there, ape ! A seat for ray daughter, the wife of 
 the imperator Sergius Vanno !"' 
 
 The dwarf sprang forward and dragged out a low bench 
 for her ; having done which, he seemed about to yield to 
 his curiosity and remain. But the centurion, disapproving 
 
54 ^ N N E . 
 
 of such freedom, made a lunge at him with the small 
 sword, before which the dwarf retired with a precipitate 
 leap, and joined the bond-woman and armor-bearer out- 
 side. Then the father, being left alone with his daughter, 
 embraced her, and uttered such words of welcome as his 
 rough nature suggested. 
 
 As regarded his intercourse with her, perhaps the most 
 noticeable traits were the mingled reverence and familiar- 
 ity with which he treated her. It seemed as though he 
 were actuated by an ever-pervading consciousness that her 
 exalted position demanded the observance of the deepest 
 respect towards her ; but that this feeling was connected in 
 his mind with an unceasing struggle to remember that, 
 after all, she was his own child, and as such was not enti- 
 tled to any undue consideration from him. Upon the present 
 occasion, he first timidly touched her cheek with his lips 
 and uttered a gentle and almost courtly salutation ; but 
 immediately recollecting himself, and appearing to become 
 impressed with the belief that his unwitting deference was 
 unworthy of the character of a father, he proceeded to 
 atone for the mistake by a rough and discomposing em- 
 brace, and such a familiar and frolicksorae greeting as none 
 but a camp-follower would have felt flattered with. Then 
 seating himself before her, he commenced his conversation 
 in a rude and uncouth tone, and with rather a forced affec- 
 tation of military bluntness ; from which, however, as his 
 eye dwelt upon the richness of her apparel and his mind 
 began to succumb to the charm of her native refinement, he 
 gradually and unconsciously subsided, in turn, into his for- 
 mer soft and deferential manner. 
 
iE N O N B . 55 
 
 "And so the imperator Sergius Vaniio, has returned," he 
 said, rolling upon his tongue, with evident satisfaction, that 
 high-sounding title — once the acknowledged appellation of 
 a conqueror, but now claimed as a right by the imperial 
 line alone, and no longer elsewhere bestowed except as an 
 informal and transitory compliment. " It was a splendid 
 ovation, and well earned by a glorious campaign. There 
 is no one in all the Roman armies who could have man- 
 aged it better." 
 
 Nevertheless, with unconscious inconsistency, he imme- 
 diately began to show wherein the campaign could have 
 been improved, and how many gross mistakes were visible 
 in every portion of it — how the force of Mutius should have 
 been diverged more in advancing inland — how, in the 
 battle along the shore, the three-oared galleys of Agricola 
 should have been drawn up to support the attack — the con- 
 sequence of thi« omission, if the leading cohort had met 
 with a repulse — and the like. All this he marked out upon 
 the floor with a piece of coal, taking but little heed that 
 ^none could not follow him ; and step by step, in the ardor 
 of criticism, he advanced so far that he was soon ready to 
 prove that the campaign had been most wofully miscon- 
 ducted, and was only indebted to accident for success. 
 
 " But it is of little use for me to talk, if I cannot act as 
 well," he at length concluded, rising from the floor. " And 
 how could I act any part, placed as I am ? The father of 
 the wife of the imperator Sergius Vanno should be the 
 leader of a cohort rather than of a mere century ; and bo 
 otherwise lodged than in this poor place. Then would 
 they listen to him." 
 
516 ^ N N B . 
 
 He spoke bitterly and enviously, exhibiting in bis whole 
 tone as well as in his words his besetting weakness. For 
 awhile ^none did not answer. It was as far from her 
 duty as from her taste and pleasure to remind him, even if 
 she could have done so to his comprehension, that her hus- 
 band had already advanced him as far as was possible or 
 fitting, and had otherwise provided for him in various ways 
 as well as could reasonably be expected. The views of the 
 centurion were of a far different nature. In giving his 
 daughter to the patrician he had meanly intended thereby 
 to rise high in life — had anticipated ready promotion be- 
 yond what his ignorance would have justified — had sup- 
 posed that he would be admitted upon an equal social 
 footing among the friends of Sergius, not realizing that his 
 own native roughness and brutishness must have forbidden 
 such a connections-had dazzled his eyes too wilfully with 
 pictures of the wealth and influence and glory that would - 
 fall to his lot. As long, therefore, as so many of those 
 gilded imaginings had failed in their promise, it seemed as 
 nothing to him that Sergius, in the first flush of admiration 
 for the daughter, had removed the father from rough pro- 
 vincial to more pleasing and relaxing urban duties, had 
 purchased him a house befitting his station, and had light- 
 ened his condition in various ways. 
 
 "But we are gradually doing better," ^none said at 
 length, striving to cheer him by identifying her fortunes 
 more nearly with his own. "This is a finer place than we 
 had to live in at Ostia. Think how narrow and crowded 
 we were then. And now I see that we Lave a new slave 
 
to open for us, while at Ostia we had only old Mitus. In- 
 deed, we are very comfortable." 
 
 " -^J, ay," growled the centurion ; " a new slave — a 
 dwarf or idiot, or what not — just such a creature as would 
 not bring five sestertia in the market; and therefore the 
 imperator has cast him to me, like a bare bone to a dog. 
 Tell him I thank him for the gift. And in this matter it 
 has been with me as always heretofore — either no luck at 
 all, or too much. How often have I not passed a campaign 
 without taking a prisoner, while they fell in crowds to all 
 aiound me 1 And if at last I gained my share, when was 
 it ever of any value to me, being hundreds of miles from 
 a market ? And liere it is the same again. For months, 
 no slave at all ; and then all aj once there are two, and I 
 shall be eaten out of my house." 
 
 " Two, father ?" 
 
 " Listen to me. No sooner did your honored lord send 
 me this dwarf, than arrives Tisiphon of the twelfth cohort. 
 He had long owed me a slave ; and now that a captive, poor 
 and feeble, and likely to die, had fallen into his hands, he 
 thought it a fair opportunity to acquit himself towards me. 
 
 « 
 
 But for once -Tisiphon hag cheated himself. The slave he 
 brought was weak and sick, but it was only from want of 
 food and rest. The fellow will recover, and I will ere long 
 make much of him. Would you see him ? Look out of the 
 back window there. He will turn out a fine slave yet, and 
 if this dwarf had not come, would be right pleasing to me. 
 But two of them 1 How shall I find bread for both ?" 
 
 jEnone walked to the window, and leaned out. The 
 courtyard behind was but limited in size, containing a few 
 
 3* 
 
iiS .E N O N E. 
 
 squares of burnt brick arranged for pavement around a 
 small plat of grass at the foot of a single plane-tree. The 
 slave of whom the centurion spoke was seated upon this 
 plat, with his back against the tree, and his head bent over, 
 while, with vacant mind, he watched the play of a small 
 green lizard. As she appeared- at the window, he raised 
 his eyes towards her, then dropped them again upon the 
 ground. It was hardly, in fact, as much as could be called 
 a look — a mere glance, rather, a single tremor of the droop- 
 ing lids, a mute appeal for sympathy, as though there had 
 been an inner instinct which, at that instant, had directed 
 him to her, as one who could feel pity for his trouble and 
 desolation. But at that glance, joined to something 
 strangely peculiar in the_ captive's figure and attitude, a 
 nervous thrill shot through jEnone's heart, causing her to 
 hold her breath in unreasoning apprehension ; a fear of 
 something which she could not explain, a dim consciousness 
 of some forgotten association of the past arising to confront 
 her, but which she could not for the moment identify. And 
 still she looked out, resisting the impulse of dread which 
 bade her move away, fixing a strained gaze upon the cap- 
 tive, in a vain struggle to allay, by one moment of calm 
 scrutiny, that, phantom of her memory which, act as she 
 might, would not be repressed, but which each instant 
 seemed to expand into clearer certainty before her. 
 
 " Do you see him ? Does he appear to you a worthy 
 slave ?" cried the centurion. 
 
 " A worthy slave indeed," she answered, in a low tone, 
 feeling compelled to make some response. 
 
 At her voice the captive again raised his head, and 
 
JE N N B . 59 
 
 looked into her face ; not now with a hasty, timid glance, 
 but with the full gaze of one who believes he has been spo- 
 ken to, and waits for a renewal of the question. And as 
 she met the inquiring look, ^none turned away and sank 
 back in terror and dismay. She knew it all, now, nor could 
 she longer deceive herself by vain pretences or assurances. 
 The instinct which at the first had filled her soul with that 
 unexplained dread, had not been false, to her. For that 
 glance, as it now rested upon her with longer duration and 
 deeper intensity, too surely completed the suggestion 
 vphich at the first it had faintly whispered to her, flashing 
 into her heart the long-stifled memories of the past, recalling 
 the time when, a few years, before, she had sat upon the 
 rock at Ostia, and had gazed dow-n upon eyes lifted to meet 
 her own with just so beseeching an appeal, and telling 
 her too truly that she stood again in the presence of him to 
 whom she had then promised her girlish faith, and whom 
 she had so long since looked upon as dead to her. 
 
 " I will call him in,'' said the centurion, " and you can see 
 him closer." 
 
 " Nay, nay, father ; let him remain where he is," she 
 exclaimed, in uncontrollable dread of recognition. 
 
 " Ha ! art not afraid, girl ?" demanded the old man. 
 " He can do thee no harm, even were he stronger ; and now 
 that he is weak, a child could lead him with a string. 
 Come hither, sirrah 1" 
 
 The captive arose, smoothed down his tunic, and, obe- 
 diently entering the house, awaited commands ; while 
 ^none, with as quiet movement as possible, shrunk into 
 the most distant corner of the room. What if he should 
 
60 ^ N N E . 
 
 recognize her, and should call upon her by name, not 
 knowing her changed position, or recollecting his own 
 debasement into slavery? What explanation other than 
 the true one could she give to account for his audacity, 
 and save him from the chastisement which the offended 
 centurion would prepare to bestow upon him ? This was 
 but a momentary fear, however, since she felt that the in- 
 creasing gloom of evening, added to her own alteration by 
 dress, and the certainty that he wofild not expect to meet 
 her thus, furnished a sure protection against recognition, 
 as long as she took care not to risk betrayal by her voice 
 or manner. And, perhaps, after all — and her heart lights 
 ened somewhat at the thought — it might be that her reason 
 had too freely yielded to an insane fancy, and allowed her 
 to be deceived by a chance resemblance. 
 
 " How is he called ?" she inquired, disguising her voice 
 as thoroughly as she could. The instant she had spoken 
 she would have retracted her words, if possible, from the 
 mere fear lest her father, in his response, might mention 
 her name. Bit it luckily chanced that the centurion did 
 not do so. 
 
 " How is he called ? Nay, that thing I had not thought 
 to ask as yet. Your name, slave ?" 
 
 " Cleotos." 
 
 At the word, the blood again flew back to her heart. 
 There could now no longer be a doubt. How often had she 
 repeated that name endearingly, in those early days of her 
 first romantic life ! 
 
 " Cleotos,'' said the centurion. " It is a brave name. 
 There was once a leader of a fi(ll legion with that name, 
 
is N N E . 61 
 
 and he did well to the empire. It is, therefore, scarcely a 
 name for a slave to bear. But we will talk some other 
 time about that. It is of thine appearance now. that we 
 will speak. Is he not, after all, a pleasing youth ? Did 
 Tisiphon so surely deceive me as he intended, when he 
 gave the man to me ? See ! there is but little brawn and 
 muscle to him, I grant ; and therefore he will not make 
 a good gladiator or even spearman ; but he has a comely 
 shape, which will fit him well for a page or palace usher. 
 And, therefore, I will sell him for such. He should bring 
 a good price, indeed, when the marks of his toil and sick- 
 ness have gone oif from him, and he has been fattened into 
 better condition. But two of >them !" continued the centu- 
 rion, suddenly recurring to his former source of grief. 
 " How can I fatten him when there are two of them ? How 
 find bread for both ? And yet he is not so very thin, now. 
 I will light a lamp, daughter, for it has grown dark, and 
 you shall come nearer and examine him." 
 
 " Nay I nay !" exclaimed JEnone, in hurried resistance of 
 this new danger. " Not now. I am no judge of the merits 
 of captives, and it is getting late. I know that my lord 
 will be expecting me, and perchance will be vexed if I 
 delay." 
 
 " Be it so, then,'' responded the other. " And as it is dark, 
 it is not befitting that you should go without escort. Take, 
 therefore — " 
 
 " I have the armor-bearer for my escort, father." 
 
 " It is something, but not enough," said the centurion 
 " Enough for safety, but not for dignity. Remember that, 
 while on the one hand you are the wife of the imperator 
 
62 ^NONE. 
 
 Sergins Vanno, you are also a daughter of the house of 
 Porthenus — a family which was powerful in the far-off days 
 of the republic, long before the house of Vanno had begun 
 to take root,'' he continued, in a tone of pride. For then, 
 as now, poverty consoled itself for its privations by dreams 
 — whether well or ill founded, it mattered but little — of 
 grandeurs which had once existed ; and it was one of the 
 weaknesses of the centurion to affect superiority of blood, 
 and try to believe that therein he enjoyed compensations 
 beyond any thing that wealth could bestow. 
 
 " Of the house of Porthenus,'' he repeated, " and should 
 therefore be suitably attended. So let this new slave follow 
 behind. And take, also, the dwarf. He is not of soldierly 
 appearance, but for all that he will count as one more." 
 
 Fearful of offending her father by a refusal, or of en- 
 countering additional risks of recognition by a more pro- 
 longed conversation at the doorway, now brightened by the 
 light of the newly risen moon, ^none hastily assented, and 
 started upon her homeward route. Clinging closely to the 
 side of her bond-woman, not daring to look back for a part- 
 ing adieu to her father, who stood at the door leaning upon 
 his sword, and grimly smiling with delight at fancying his 
 child at last attended as became a scion of the house' of 
 Porthenus — not regarding the half-smothered oaths and ex- 
 clamations of contempt with which the armor-bearer behind 
 her surveyed his two new companions upon guard — she 
 pressed rapidly on, with the sole desire of reaching her 
 house and securing herself from further danger of recog- 
 nition. 
 
 The moon rose higher, silvering the city with charms of 
 
-S! N N E . g3 
 
 new beauty, gleaming upon the surface of the swift-rolling 
 Tiber, giving fresh radiance to the marble palaces and 
 temples, adding effect to whatever was already beautiful, 
 diminishing the deformity of whatever was unlovely, even 
 imparting a pleasant aspect of cheerfulness to the lower 
 quarters of the city, where lay congregated poverty and 
 dishonor and crime. The Appian Way no longer swarmed 
 with the crowd that- had trodden it an hour ago. The 
 priests had completed the sacrifice and left the teraple, the 
 bathers had departed, the slaves no longer lingered upon 
 the porticoes, and the riders in gay chariots no more were 
 to be seen. A calmer and more quiet occupancy of the 
 street had ensued. Here and there a soldier paced to and 
 fro, looking up at the moon and down again at the glisten- 
 ing river, and thought, perhaps, upon other night-watches 
 in Gallia, when just such a moon had gleamed upon the 
 silver Rhone. Here and there two lovers,, loth to abandon 
 such a pleasant light and warmth, strolled slowly along, 
 and, as lovers have ever done, bade the moon witness their 
 vows. But not the river or the moonlight did JSnone now 
 linger to look upon, nor lovers' vows did she think about, 
 as she glided hastily towards her own home. The peace- 
 fulness and quiet of nature found no response in her heart. 
 Her only emotion was one of dread lest each ray of light 
 might shine too brightly upon her — lest even her walk 
 might betray her — lest every sound might be an un- 
 guarded recognition from the poor unconscious captive 
 behind her. 
 
 At length she reached her home, passed up the broad 
 flight of steps in front, and stood panting within the door- 
 
64 ^ N N E . 
 
 way. A momentary pause ere she entered ; and then, un- 
 able to continue the control which she had so far maintained 
 over herself, she turned and cast one hasty, curious glance 
 below. The two new slaves of the centurion stood side fcy 
 side in the street, gazing up at the palace walls — the dwarf 
 with a grin of almost idiotic glee, the other with a grave 
 air of quiet contemplation. But what was that sudden 
 look of startled recognition that suddenly flashed across the 
 features of the latter ? Why did his face turn so ghastly 
 pale in the moonlight, and his limbs seem to fail him, so 
 that he grasped his companion's arm f(5r support ? JEnone 
 shrank terrified into the obscurity of the doorway. 
 
 But in an instant she recovered her self-possession. It 
 must be that he had been faint or giddy, nothing more. It 
 could not have been recognition that had startled him from 
 his earnest contemplation, for he had not been looking 
 towards her, but, with his body half turned away, had been 
 gazing up at the highest story of the palace. 
 
 1* 
 
^ N O N B 65 
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 And now, having avoided the immediate peril of recogni- 
 tion, ^none turned into the palace. Even there, however, 
 her disordered fancy pictured dangers still encompassing her. 
 How, after all, could she feel sure that she had not been 
 known ? During that clear moonlight passage along the 
 Appian Way, what revelations might not have been made 
 by a chance look or gesture ! At the very first she- had 
 almost stumbled upon the truth, merely through the magic 
 of one upward glance of the eye of the wearied slave ; 
 why, then, might she not have unconsciously revealed her- 
 self to him by even a wave of the hand or a turn of the in- 
 step, or by some other apparently trivial and unimportant 
 motion ? And if so, at what instant might he not forget 
 his fallen condition, and disregard not only his safety but 
 her reputation, by pressing into the palace and claiming 
 th^ right of speech with her ? Rasher deeds were not 
 seldom done under the promptings of desperation. Trem- 
 bling beneath the sway of such imaginings, each footfall 
 that resounded in the hall seemed like the light and 
 buoyant step of him who had trodden with her the sands 
 of Ostia — each figure that passed by bore, for the instant, 
 the outline of his form — even at the open window the well- 
 known face seemed to peer in at every corner and watch 
 her. 
 
66 ^NONB. 
 
 This paroxysm of terror gradually passed away, but was 
 succeeded bj- other fancies equally productive of inquietude. 
 What if the captive, having recognized her, had whispered 
 his story to the companions with whom he had walked 1 
 He would surely not do so if he still loved her ; but what if 
 his love had ceased, and he should be meanly desirous of 
 increasing his own importance by telling how he, a slave, 
 had been the chosen lover of the proudly allied lady before 
 him ? Nay, he would never act thus, for it would be a 
 baseness foreign to his nature ; and yet, have not men of 
 the most lofty sense of honor often fallen from their origi- 
 nal nobility, and revelled in self-degradation ? And it 
 somehow seemed as though, at the last, the dwarf had 
 looked up at her with a strangely knowing leer. And was 
 it merely her imagination that made her think there was 
 a certain sly approach to undue familiarity in the usually 
 deferential deportment of the armor-bearer ? 
 
 With the next morning, however, came more composed 
 reflections. Though the forebodings of the evening had 
 naturally tinged her dreams with similar vague imaginings 
 of coming trouble, yet, upon the whole, her sleep had 
 brought rest, and the bright sunlight streaming in at the 
 window drove away the phantoms which, during the pre- 
 vious gloom, had so" confusedly disported themselves in her 
 bewildered brain. She could now indulge in a more cheer- 
 ing view of her situation ; and she felt that there was 
 nothing in what had transpired of sufficient importance, 
 when coolly weighed and passed upon, to make her anxious 
 or afraid. 
 
 In a sick and travel-worn slave she had recognized one 
 
iENONE. 67 
 
 to whom, in her yotmger days, she had plighted her faith, 
 and who had, in return, given his faith to her. He was now 
 a captive, and she had become one of the nobles of the em- 
 pire. But his evil lot had not been of her procuring, being 
 merely one of those ill fortunes which are cast broadly over 
 the earth, and whose descent upon any one person more 
 than upon another can be attributed to destiny alone. ' Nor, 
 in accepting her high position, had she been guilty of 
 breach of faith, for she had long awaited the return of her 
 lover, and he had not come. And through all those years, 
 as she had grown into more mature womanhood, she had 
 vaguely felt that those stolen interviews had been but the 
 unreasoning suggestions of girlish romance, too carelessly 
 indifferent to the exigencies of poverty and diverse na- 
 tionality ; and that, if he had ever returned to claim her, 
 mutual explanation and forgetfulness could have been their 
 only proper course. There was, therefore, nothing for 
 which she could reproach herself, or for which he could 
 justly blame her, were he to recognize her as the wife of 
 another man. 
 
 But there was little danger, indeed, that such a recog- 
 nition could take place. Certainly, now that, apart from 
 her troubled and excited fears of the previous day, she 
 more deliberately weighed the chances, she felt assured 
 that in her rapid passage through the evening gloom, 
 nothing could have betrayed her. And it was not proba- 
 ble that even in open daylight and in face-to-face encoun- 
 ter with him he would be likely to know her. She had 
 recognized him almost at a glance, for not only was his 
 dress composed of the same poor and scant material which 
 
68 ^NONB. 
 
 had served him years before, but even in form and feature 
 he seemed unchanged, his slight frame having gained no 
 expansion as his manhood had progressed, while his face 
 retained in every line the same soft and almost girlish ex- 
 pression. But with herself all things had altered. It was 
 not merely that the poorly clad maiden who, with naked 
 feet, well-tanned hands, and tangled and loosely hanging 
 curls, had been wont to wander carelessly by the shore 
 of a distant bay, had since become a richly adorned matron 
 of the imperial centre. Beyond all that, there was a great- 
 er change, which, though in its gradual progress almost 
 inappreciable to one who had watched her day by day, 
 could not but be remarked after a lapse of many years. 
 The darker hair, the softer complexion, the suave smile into 
 which the merry laugh of girlhood had little by little sub- 
 sided, the more composed mien, replete with matronly 
 dignity, the refinement of air and attitude insensibly re- 
 sulting frpra long-continued instinctive imitation, the su- 
 perior development of figure — all these, as they were im- 
 provements on her former self, were also just so many 
 effective disguises upon which she could safely rely, unless 
 she were to provoke inordinate scrutiny by some unguard- 
 ed action or expression. But this she would earnestly 
 guard against. She would even put no trust in the nat- 
 ural immunity of which her reason assured her, but would 
 make every thing doubly safe by totally refraining from 
 any encounter with one whose recognition of her would 
 be so painful. 
 
 This she could do, and yet not fail in any friendly duty 
 which the remembrance of their former love might enjoin 
 
^ N N E . 69 
 
 upon her. Unseen in her retirement, she could watch over 
 and protect him, now that in his sorrow and degradation he 
 so greatly needed a friend. She could ameliorate his lot by 
 numberless kindnesses, which he would enjoy none the less 
 tor being unable to detect their source. She would cunning- 
 ly influence her father to treat him with tenderness and con- 
 sideration. And when the proper time arrived, and she 
 could take her measures without suspicion,. she would her- 
 self purchase his freedom, and send him back rejoicing to 
 his native land. And when all this was done, and he should 
 again have reached his home, perhaps she might then write 
 to him one line to tell him who it was that had befriended 
 him, and that she had done so in memory of olden times, 
 and that now, when she was so far removed from him, he 
 should give her one kind thought, utter a prayer to the 
 gods in her behalf, and then forget her forever. 
 
 So much for her security and her friendly duty. As for 
 the feelings of her heart, she was at rest. Strong in self- 
 confidence, she had no fear that her mind could be in- 
 fluenced to stray from its proper path. It is true that 
 during the previous evening, in the first tumult of troubled 
 thought, she had felt a vague presentiment that a day of 
 temptation might be before her, not as the result of any de- 
 liberate choice upon her part, but rather as a cruel destiny 
 to be forced upon her. But now the current of her mind 
 moved more clearly and unobstructedly ; and she felt that 
 however chance might control the worldly prosperity of 
 each one,, the will and strength to shape his own destiny, 
 for good or evil, are still left to him unimpaired. Away, 
 then, with all thoughts of the past. In her heart there 
 
70 ^ N N B . 
 
 could be but one affection, and to her life there could be but 
 the one course of duty, and in that she would steadfastly 
 walk. 
 
 Strengthened, therefore, with the well-assured belief that 
 the impulsive affection of her youth had become gradual- 
 ly tempered by lapse of years into a chaste and sisterly 
 friendship, and that the pleasant memories which clustered 
 about her heart and made her look back half regretfully 
 upon those former days would be cherished only as the mere 
 innocent relics of a girlish romance, she felt no fear that her 
 faith could be led to depart from its lawful allegiance. But 
 aside from all this, there lurked within her breast an un- 
 easy sense of being the holder of a great secret which, in 
 the end, would surely crush her, unless she could share 
 its burden with another. In this desire for confidence, at 
 least, there could be no harm ; and her mind rapidly ran 
 over the array of her few friends. For the first time in her 
 life, perhaps, her isolation from close and unfettered com- 
 panionship with others was forced upon her attention, and 
 her soul grew faint as she thought of her dependence upon 
 herself alone for comfort or advice. To whom, indeed, 
 could she venture to pour out her heart ? Not to her 
 father, who, with unreasoning ignorance and little char- 
 ity, would coarsely form base conclusions about her, and 
 would most likely endeavor to solve the problem by cruelty 
 to the unfortunate slave who had so unwittingly originated 
 it. Not to any of those matrons of whom her rank made 
 her the associate ; and who, after gaining her confidence, * 
 would either betray it to others, or else, wrongly miscon- 
 struing her, and fancying her to be influenced by scruples 
 
■which they might not have felt, would scarcely fail to ridi- 
 cule and cast disdain upon all the most tender emotions of 
 her heart. And above all others, not to her husband, to 
 whom, if she dared, she would have wished to reveal every 
 thing, but who had, she feared, at the bottom of his soul, a 
 jealous and suspicious nature, which would be sure to take 
 alarm, and cause him to look upon her story, not as a gen- 
 erous confidence bestowed in the hope of comfort and assist- 
 ance, but rather as a cunningly devised cover for some 
 unconfessed scheme of wrong against him. 
 
 Burdened with these reflections, jEnone slowly passed 
 from her room into the antechamber. Lifting her eyes, she 
 there saw her husband standing at the window, and, at the 
 distance of a pace or two from him, a female figure. It 
 was that of a girl of about eighteen years, small, lithe, and 
 graceful. Her costume, though not in form such as be- 
 longed to the freeborn women of Rome, was yet far supe- 
 rior in richness of material to that usually worn by persons 
 of low degree, and was fashioned with a taste which could 
 not fail to assist the display of her graceful perfection of 
 form, indicated in part by the rounded lines of the uncov- 
 ered neck and arms. As jEnone entered the room, Sergius 
 advanced, and, taking her by the hand, said : 
 
 " Yonder is a new slave for you — the present about 
 which I yesterday spoke. I trust it will prove that during 
 my absence I was not unmindful of you. It was at Samos 
 that I obtained her. There, you may remember, we tarried, 
 after taking the town and burning part of the fleet." 
 
 Samos 1 Where had jEnone heard that place mentioned ? 
 Searching into the recesses of her memory, it at last 
 
72 ^ N N E . 
 
 flashed upon her. Was it not from Samos that he — Cle- 
 otos — had come ? And was it fate that forced the recollec- 
 tion of him ever upon her? She turned pale, but by a 
 Violent effort succeeded in maintaining her self-possession 
 and looking up with a smile of apparent interest upon her 
 husband as he spoke. 
 
 " She had nearly fallen the prey of one of the common 
 soldiers," he continued ; " but I, with a few pieces of gold, 
 rescued her from him, picturing to myself the gratification 
 you would feel at being so fitly attended. And that you 
 might the better appreciate the gift, I have retained her till 
 to-day before showing her to you, in order that you might 
 first see her recovered from the toil of travel and in all her 
 renewed beauty. A rare beauty, indeed, but of a kind so dif- 
 ferent from thine that your own will be heightened by the 
 contrast rather than diminished. How many sestertia I 
 have been offered for her, how many high officers of my 
 forces have desired to obtain her for service upon their own 
 wives, I cannot now remember. But I have refused and 
 resisted all, for I would that you should be known 
 throughout Rome by the beauty of those in waiting about 
 you, even as you are now known by your own beauty. 
 Pray, accept of her, therefore, as your attendant and com- 
 panion, for it would sorely disappoint me were you to 
 reject such a pleasing gift." 
 
 " Let it be as my lord says," responded .^none. " And 
 if I fail in due utterance of my thanks, impute it not to 
 want of appreciation of the gift, but rather to inability of 
 proper expression." 
 
 It was with real gratitude that JEnone spoke ; for at the 
 
^NONE. 73 
 
 instant, a thought of cheering import flashed upon her, 
 swelling her heart with joy, and causing her to welcome 
 the captive ^irl as a gift from the gods. Here, perhaps, 
 as though in direct answer to her prayer for sympathy, 
 rtiight be the one for whom her heart had been longing ; 
 coming to her, not laden with any of that haughty pride 
 and ill-befitting knowledge with which the, Roman world 
 about her reeked, but rather as she herself had once come — 
 with all her unstained provincial innocence of thought 
 yet nestling in her shrinking soul — one, like herself, an 
 exile from a lowly state, and with a heart filled with those 
 simple memories which must not be too carelessly exposed, 
 so seldom do they gather from without any thing but cruel 
 ridicule or cold lack of comprehension — one whom she could 
 educate into an easy intimacy with her own impulses and 
 yearnings, and thus, forgetting all social differences, draw 
 closer and nearer to her as a friend and confidant. 
 
 As she thus reflected, she felt the soft pressure of lips 
 upon her left hand; which hung idly at her side, and, look- 
 ing down, she saw that the captive girl had knelt before 
 her, and, while lightly grasping her fingers, was gazing up 
 into her face with a pleading glance. J3none's first im- 
 pulse was to respond with eager warmth to that humble 
 appeal for protection and friendship ; and had it not been 
 for the morbid fear she felt lest her husband, who stood 
 looking on, might chide such familiarity, or at the least 
 might cast ridicule upon the feeling which prompted it, she 
 would have raised the captive girl and folded her in her 
 arms. As it was, the impulse was too spontaneous and 
 sudden to be entirely resisted, and she held forth her other 
 
 4 
 
74 iENONE. 
 
 hand to lift the kneeling figure, when a strange, intuitive 
 peroeption of something which she could scarcely explain, 
 caused her to withhold further action. 
 
 Something, she knew not what, in the attitude and 
 expression of the captive before her, which sent her 
 warm blood flowing back with a chilled current — some- 
 thing which told her that her hopes of the moment had 
 been smitten with decay as suddenly as they had been 
 raised, and that, instead of a friend, she had perhaps 
 found an enemy. The full dark eye yet gazed up at her 
 with the same apparent moistened appeal for friendly sym- 
 pathy ; but to ^none's alarmed instinct it now seemed as 
 though behind that glance there was an inner depth of 
 bold, calculating scrutiny. Still, almost unheeding the 
 gentle gesture of the hand extended to raise her, the 
 Greek knelt upon the floor, and, with an appearance of 
 mingled timorousness and humility, laid her lips upon the 
 gathered fingers ; but now there appeared to be no natural 
 warmth or glow in the pressure or real savor- of lowliness 
 in the attitude, but rather a forced and studied obsequious- 
 ness. For the instant jEnone paused, as though uncertain 
 how to act. Then, fearing to betray her doubts, and hop- 
 ing that her startled instinct might have deceived her, she 
 bent forward once more and raised the captive to her 
 feet. 
 
 It had all been the work of an instant ; passing so 
 quickly that the pause between the impulse and its com- 
 pletion could hardly have been noticed. But in that instant 
 a change had swept over the expressions of both ; and as 
 they now stood opposite and gazed more intently upon 
 
^NONE. 
 
 75 
 
 each other, the change still progressed. The face of the 
 young Eoman matron, but a moment before so glowing 
 with sympathy and radiant with a newly discovered hope 
 of future happiness, now seemed to shrink behind a veil of 
 despairing dread — the fear chasing away the joy as the 
 shadow flits . along the wall and banishes the sunlight ; 
 while, though every feature of the Greek still seemed 
 clothed with trembling humility, yet, from some latent 
 depths of her nature, a gleam of something strangely wild 
 and forbidding began to play upon the surface, and invest 
 the moistened eye and quivering lip with an undefinable 
 repulsive harshness. 
 
 " Your name," said ^none, rousing herself with exertion, 
 as though from a painful dream. 
 
 " They call me Leta," was the reply, uttered in a tone of 
 despairing sadness, and with eyes again cast upon the floor. 
 " Leta," repeated ^none, touched in spite of her fore- 
 bodings by that guise of an unhappiness which might, 
 after all, be real. " It is a fair sounding name, and I 
 shall call you always by it. Poor girl ! you are an exile 
 from your native land, and I — I cannot call myself a 
 Eoman. We m-ust be friends — must we not ?" 
 
 She spoke rather in the tone of one hoping against evil 
 auguries than as one indulging in any confident anticipa- 
 tions of the future. The Greek did not answer, but again 
 slowly raised her eyes. At first, as before, with the same 
 studied expression of pleading humility ; but, as she 
 glanced forward, and saw Sergius standing behind, and 
 gazing at her with an admiration which he did not at- 
 tempt to dissemble, a strange glow of triumph and ambi- 
 
76 iENONB. 
 
 tious hope seemed to light up her features. And when, 
 after a hasty glance of almost responsive meaning to- 
 wards Sergius, she again looked into the face of the other, 
 it was no longer with an assumption of humble entreaty, 
 but rather with an expression of wild, searching intensity. 
 Before it the milder gaze of Mnone faltered, Until it seemed 
 as though the two had suifered a relative interchange of 
 position : the patrician mistress standing with troubled 
 features, and with vague apprehension and trembling in her 
 heart, and as though timorously asking for the friendship 
 which she had meant to bestow ; and the captive, calmly, 
 and with a look of ill-suppressed triumph, reading the other's 
 soul as though to learn how she could most readily wield 
 supremacy over her. 
 
-aE N O N E . 77 
 
 .CHAPTER VII. 
 
 For an instant only. When from jEnone's troubled gaze, 
 the half-blinding film which the agitation of her apprehen- 
 sive mind had gathered, passed away, she no longer saw 
 before her a proudly erect figure, flashing out from dark, 
 wild eyes its defiant mastery, but a form again bent low in 
 timorous supplication, and features once more overspread 
 with a mingled imprint of sorrowful resignation, trusting . 
 devotion, and pleading humility. 
 
 That gleam of malicious triumph which had so bright- 
 ened up the face of the slave, had come and gone like the 
 lightning flash ; and, for the moment, -^none was almost 
 inclined to believe that it was some bewildering waking 
 dream. But her instinct told her that it was no mere 
 imagination or fancy which could thus, at one instant, fill 
 the heart with dread, and change her bright anticipations 
 of coming, joy into a dull, aching foreboding of misery. It 
 was rather her inner nature warning her not to be too easily 
 ensnared, but to wait for coming evil with unfaltering 
 watchfulness, and, for the purpose of baffling enmity, to 
 perform the hardest task that can be imposed upon a guile- 
 less nature — ^thatof repressing all outward sign of distrust, 
 hiding the torture of the heart within, and meeting smile 
 with smile. 
 
78 ^ N O N E . 
 
 But day after day passed on, and even to her watchful 
 and strained attention there appeared no further indication 
 of any thing that should excite . alarm. From morning 
 until night there rested upon the face of the young Greek 
 slave no expression other than that of tender, faithful,, and 
 pleased obedience. At the morning toilet, at the forenoon 
 task of embroidery, or at the afternoon promenade, there 
 was ever the same serene gaze of earnest devotion, and the 
 same delighted alacrity to anticipate the slightest wish. 
 Until at last ^none began again to think that perhaps her 
 perception of that one fleeting look might, after all, be but 
 a flickering dream. And when, at times, she sat and heard 
 the young girl speak, not with apparent method, but rather 
 as one who is unwittingly drawn into discursive prattle, 
 about her cottage home in Samos, and the lowly lover from 
 whom the invading armies had torn her, and watched the 
 moistened eye and the trembling lip with which these 
 memories were dwelt upon, an inward pity and sympathy 
 tempted her to forget her own distrust ; until one day she 
 was impelled to. act as she had once desired, and began to 
 pour out her whole heart to the young slave as to a friend. 
 The words seemed of themselves to flow to her lips, as bid- 
 ding the girl be comforted, she told, in one short sentence, 
 how she too had once lived in a tranquil cottage home, 
 away from the bustle and fever of that imperial Rome, and 
 had had her lover of low degree, and that both were still 
 innocently dear to her. 
 
 AH the while that the story had been welling forth from 
 her lips, that inner instinct which so seldom deceives, told 
 her that she was doing wrong ; and when she had ended 
 
iE N N E . Y9 
 
 she would have given worlds not to have spoken. But the 
 words were beyond recall, and she could only gaze stealth- 
 ily at the listener, and, with a dull feeling of apprehension 
 nestling at the bottom of her heart, endeavor to mark their 
 effect, and to imagine the possible consequences of her in- 
 discretion. But Leta sat bending over her embroidery, and 
 apparently still thinking, with tearful eye, upon her own 
 exile from home. Perhaps she had not even heard all that 
 had been said to her ; though if the words had really caught 
 her ear, where, after all, could be the harm ? It was no secret 
 in Rome that Sergins Vauno had brought his spouse from 
 a lowly home ; and it was surely no crime, that, during 
 those years of poverty which ^none had passed through 
 before being called to fill her present station, she had once 
 Buffered her girlhood fancy to rest for a little while upon one 
 of her own class. And fortunately ^he had not gone further 
 in her story, but at that point had left it to rest ; making 
 no mention of how that long-forgotten lover had so lately 
 reappeared and confronted her. 
 
 Still there remained in her heart the irrepressible instinct 
 that it would have been better if she had not spoken. And 
 now, as she silently pondered upon her imprudence, it 
 seemed as though her anxiety had suddenly endowed her 
 brain with new and keener faculties of perception, so many 
 startling ideas began to crowd in upon her. More particu- 
 larly, full shape and tone seemed for the first time given to 
 one terrible suspicion, which she had hitherto known only 
 in a misty, intangible, and seldom recurring form — the sus- 
 picion that, ifAhe passive girl before her were really an 
 enemy, it was not owing to any mere ordinary impulse nf 
 
80 iE ]sr N E . 
 
 fear, or envy, or inexplicable womanish dislike, but rather 
 to secret rivalry. 
 
 That, within the past few days, Sergius had more and 
 more exhibited towards herself an indifference, which 
 even his studied attempts to maintain a semblance of 
 his, former interest and affection did not fully hide, ^none 
 could not but feel. That within her breast lurked" the 
 terrible thought that perhaps the time had forever passed 
 for her to come to him as to a loving friend, and there 
 fearlessly pour out her tribulations, her secret tears 
 confessed. But throughout all this change, though it be- 
 came 'each day more strongly marked, she had tried to 
 cheat herself into the belief that the romantic warmth of a 
 first attachment could not in any case be expected to last 
 for many years — that in meeting indiflFerence she was 
 merely experiencing a common lot — that beneath his cool- 
 ness there still lurked the old affection, as the lava will 
 flow beneath the hardened crust — and that, if she were 
 indeed losing the appearance of his love, it was merely be- 
 cause the claims of the court, the exigencies of the social 
 world, or the demands of ambition had too, much usurped 
 his attention. 
 
 But now a tliousand hitherto unregarded circumstances 
 began to creep into her mind as so many evidences that his 
 affection seemed passing from her ; not simply because the 
 claims of duty or ambition were stifling in his heart all 
 power to love, but because he had become secretly attached 
 elsewhere. The interested gaze with which he followed 
 the motions of the Greek girl — the solicitude which he 
 seemed to feel that in all things she should be treated, not 
 
JBNONE. ^i 
 
 only tenderly, but more luxuriously than ever fell to the lot 
 of even the highest class of slaves — his newly acquired 
 habit of strolling into the room and throwing himself down 
 where he could lazily watch her— all these, and other cir- 
 cumstances, though individually trivial, could not fail, when 
 united, to give cogency to the one terrible conviction of 
 secret wrong. Whether Leta herself had any perception 
 of all this, who could yet tell ? It might be that she was 
 clothed in innocent unconsciousness of her master's admira- 
 tion, or that, by the force of native purity, she had resisted 
 his advances. And, on the other hand, it might be that not 
 merely now, but long before she had been brought into the 
 house, there had been a secret understanding between the 
 two ; and that, with undeviating and unrelenting cunning, 
 she was ever drawing him still closer within the folds 
 of her fascinations. Looking upon her, and noting the 
 humble and almost timorous air with which she moved 
 about, as though seeking kindness and protection, and the 
 eloquence of mute appeal for sympathy which lay half hid- 
 den in her dark eyes beneath the scarcely raised lids, and 
 rested in her trembling lips, who could doubt her ? But 
 marking the haughtiness of pride with which at times she 
 drew up her slight figure to its utmost height, the ray of 
 scorn and malice which flashed from those eyes, and the 
 lines of firm, unpitying determination which gathered about 
 the compressed corners of those lips, who could help fear- 
 ing and distrusting her ? 
 
 Time or chance alone could resolve the question, and 
 meanwhile, what course could JEnone take ? She could not 
 send the object of her suspicion to another place ; for even 
 
82 iB N N E . 
 
 if she had the power to do so, she might not be able to ac- 
 complish it without such open disturbance that the whole 
 social world of Rome would learn the degrading fact that 
 she had been jealous of her own slave. She could not 
 think — as she was sometimes almost tempted— of forget- 
 ting her pride, and humbling herself before her enemy, to 
 beg that she would not rob her of all that affection which 
 had once been lavished upon herself : for, if the Greek girl 
 were innocent, useless and feeble pity would be the only 
 result ; while, if she were guilty, it would but lead to fur- 
 ther secret wiles and malicious triumph. Nor could she 
 venture to accuse her lord of his fault ; for such a course, 
 alas ! could never restore lost love. There could, indeed, 
 be but one proper way to act. She must possess her soul 
 in patience and prudent dissimulation ; and, while affecting 
 ignorance of what she saw and heard, must strive by kind- 
 ness and attention to win back some, if not all, of the true 
 affection of former days. ' 
 
 Thus sorrowfully reflecting, she left the room, not with 
 any especial intent, but simply to avoid the presence of the 
 Greek, who, she could not help feeling, was all the while, 
 beneath the disguise of that demure expression, closely 
 watching her. Passing into another apartment, she saw 
 that Sergius had there sauntered in, and had thrown him- 
 self down upon a lounge at the open window, where, with 
 one hand restii^g behind his head, he lay half soothed into 
 slumber by the gentle murmur of the courtyard fountain. 
 Stealing up gcntjy behind him, with a strange, comming- 
 ling of affectionate desire to gain his attention, and morbid 
 dread of bringing rebuke upon herself by awakening him, 
 
Ji! N N B . 83 
 
 ^none stooped down and lightly touched his forehead with 
 her lips." 
 
 " Ah, Leta !" he exclaimed, starting up as he felt the 
 warm pressure. Then, perceiving his mistake, he lowered 
 his eyes with some confusion, and perhaps a slight feeling 
 of disappointment, and tried to force a careless laugh ; 
 which died away, however, as he saw how Mnoue stood 
 pale and trembling at receiving a greeting so confirmatory ' 
 of all her apprehensions. 
 
 " It is not Leta — it is only I," she murmured at length, in 
 a tone of plaintive sadness, which for the moment touched 
 his heart. " I am sorry that I awakened you. But I will 
 go awky again." 
 
 " Nay, remain," he exclaimed, restraining her by the 
 folds of her dress, and, with a slight effort, seating her be- 
 side him upon the lounge. " You are not — ^you must not 
 feel offended at such a poor jest as that !" 
 
 " Is it all a jest ?" she inquired. " Can you say that the 
 greeting you gave me did not spring inadvertently from 
 the real preoccupation of your mind ?" 
 
 "Of the mind? Preoccupation?" said Sergius. "By 
 the gods ! but it is a difBcult question to answer. I might 
 possibly, in some dreamy state, have been thinking care- 
 lessly of that Greek girl whom you keep so constantly 
 about you. Evefi you cannot but acknowledge that she 
 has her traits of beauty ; and if so, it is hard for a man not 
 to admire them." 
 
 " For mere admiration of her, I care but little," she re- 
 sponded. "But I would not that she should learn to ob- 
 serve it. And what pould I do, if she, perceiving it, were 
 
84 ^ N O N E . 
 
 to succeed in drawing your love from me ? What then 
 would there he for ine to do, except to die ?" 
 
 " To die ? This is but foolish talk, Mnone," he said ; and 
 he fastened an inquiring gaze upon her, as though wishing 
 to search into her soul, and iind out how much of his actions 
 she already knew. Evidently some fleeting expression upon 
 her countenance deceived him into believing that she had 
 heard or seen more than he had previously supposed, for, 
 with another faint attempt at a careless laugh, he continued : 
 
 " And if, at the most, there has been some senseless tri- 
 fling between the girl and mj'self — a pressure of the hand, 
 or a pat upon the cheek, when meeting by any chance in 
 hall or garden — would you find such fault with this as to 
 call it a withdrawal of my love from you ? To what, indeed, 
 could such poor, foolish pastime of the moment amount, 
 that it should bring rebuke upon me ?" 
 
 To nothing, indeed, if judged by itself alone, for that was 
 not the age of the world when every trivial departure from 
 correctness of conduct was looked upon as a crime ; and 
 had this been all, and the real affection of his heart had re- 
 mained with her, Mnone would have taken comfort. But 
 now she knew for certain that, in uncomplainingly enduring 
 any familiarities, Leta could not, at all times, have main- 
 tained her customary mien of timorous retirement, and 
 must, therefore, to some extent, have shown herself capable 
 of acting a deceitful part ; and that even though the deceit 
 may have stopped short of further transgression, it was 
 none the less certain that in future no further trust could 
 be reposed in her. Gone forever was that fiail hope to 
 which, against all warnings of instinct, .^^none had per- 
 
iENONE. ' 85 
 
 sieted in clinging — the hope that in the Greek girl she 
 might succeed in finding a true and honest friend. 
 
 Seeing that she remained absorbed and speechless, Ser- 
 gius believed that she wag merely jealously pondering upon 
 these trivial transgressions, and endeavored, by kind and 
 loving expressions, to remove the evil effects of his un- 
 guarded admission. Gathering her closer in his arms, ho 
 strove once more, by exerting those fascinations which had 
 hitherto so often prevailed, to calm her disturbed fancies, 
 and bring back again her confidence in him. But now he 
 spoke almost in vain. Conscious, as ^none could not fail 
 to be, of the apparept love and tenderness with which he 
 bent his eyes upon her, and of the liquid melody of his im- 
 passioned intonations, and half inclined, as she felt at each 
 instant, to yield to the impulse which tempted her to throw 
 her arms about his neck and promise from henceforth to be- 
 lieve unfalteringly all that he might say, whatever opposing 
 evidences might stand before her, there was all the while 
 the restraining feeling that this show of affection was but a 
 pretence wherewith to quiet her inconvenient reproaches — ■ 
 that at heart he was playing with deceit — that the husband 
 was colluding with the slave to blind her eyes — and that 
 the l6ve and friendship of both lord and menial had forever 
 failed her. 
 
 " But hold to your own suspicions, if you will," he said, 
 at length, with testy accent, as he saw how little all his 
 efforts had moved her. ''I have spoken in my defence 
 all that J need to speak, "even if excuse were necessary ; 
 and it is an ill reward to receive only cold and forbidding 
 responses in return." 
 
86 JBNONE. 
 
 " Answer me this," she exclaimed, suddenly rousing into 
 action, and looking' him earnestly in the face ; " and as you 
 now answer, I will promise to believe you, for I know that, 
 whatever you may have done, you will not, if appealed to 
 upon your honor, tell me that which is not true. About the 
 trivial actions which you have mentioned I care little ; but 
 is there in your heart any real affection for that girl ? If 
 you say that there is not, I will never more distrust you, 
 but will go out from here with a soul overflowing with 
 peace and joy as when first you came to take me to your 
 side. But if, on the contrary, you say that you love her, 
 I will—" 
 
 " Will do what ?" he exclaimed, seeing that she hesi- 
 tated, and almost hoping that she would utter some impa- 
 tient threat which in turn would give him an excuse for 
 anger. 
 
 " Will pass out from this room, sad and broken hearted, 
 indeed — but not complaining of or chiding you ; and will 
 only pray to the gods that they may, in their own time, 
 make all things once more go aright, and so restore your 
 heart to me.'' 
 
 Sergius hesitated. Never before had he been so tempt- 
 ed to utter an untruth. If he now did so, he knew thaf 
 he would be believed,' and that not only would she be 
 made once more happy, but he would be left unwatched 
 and unsuspected to carry on his own devices. But, on the 
 other hand, he had been appealed to upon his honor, and, 
 whatever his other faults, he had too much nobility of soul 
 to lie. And so, not daring to confess the truth, he chose 
 the middle path of refusing any direct response at all. 
 
iEN ONE. 87 
 
 " Now is not this a singular thing," he exclaimed, "that 
 no man can ever let his eyes rest upon a pretty face without 
 being accused of love for it ? While, if a woman does the 
 same, no tongue can describe the clamor with which she 
 repels the insinuation of aught but friendly interest. Can 
 you look me in the eye and tell me that mine is the only 
 voice you ever listened to with love ?" 
 
 " Can you dare hint to me that~I have ever been unfaith- 
 ful to you, even in thought or word ?" cried .^none, stung 
 with sudden anger by the imputation, 'and rendered des- 
 perate by her acute perception of the evasiveness of his 
 answer. " Do you not know that during the months which 
 you so SQ lately passed far away from me, there was not 
 one person admitted here into society with me who would 
 not have had your firm approval — and that I kept your 
 image so lovingly before my eyes, and your memory so con- 
 stant in my heart, as to' become almost a reproach and a 
 sarcasm to half who knew me ?" 
 
 " But before that — before I came to you — can you say 
 that no other eyes had ever looked lovingly into yours, and 
 there met kindred response ?" 
 
 " Have you the right to inquire into what 'ma,y have hap- 
 pened before you met me ? What young girl is there who, 
 some time or other, has not modestly let her thoughts dwell 
 upon innocent love ? Is there wrong in this ? Should there 
 have been a spirit of prescience in my mind to forewarn me 
 that I must keep my heart free and in vacant loneliness, be- 
 cause that, after many years, you were to come and lift me 
 from my obscurity ?" 
 
 " Then, upon your own showing, you acknowledge that 
 
gg iE N O N E . 
 
 there was once another upon whom your eyes loved to look !" 
 he cried, half gladdened that he had found even this poor 
 excuse to transfer the charge of blame from himself. " And 
 how can I tell but that you have met with him since ?" 
 
 " I have met him since," she quietly answered, driven to 
 desperation by the cruel insinuation. 
 
 In his heart attaching but little importance to such child- 
 ish affections as she might once have cherished, and having 
 had no other purpose in his suggestion than that of shield- 
 ing himself from further inquiry by inflicting some trifling 
 wound upon her, Sergius had spoken hesitatingly, and with 
 a shamefaced consciousness of meanness and self-contempt. 
 But when he listened to her frank admission — fraught, as it 
 seemed to him, with more meaning than the mere naked 
 words would of themselves imply, an angry flush of new- 
 born jealousy overspread his features. 
 
 " Ha ! You have met him since 1" he exclaimed. " And 
 when and where ? And who, then, is this fortunate one ?" 
 
 jEnone hesitated. Now, still more bitterly than ever be- 
 fore, she felt the sad consciousness of being unable to pour 
 out to her husband her more secret thoughts and feelings. 
 If she could have told, with perfect assurance of being be- 
 lieved, that in so lately meeting the man whom she had 
 once imagined she loved, she had looked upon him with no 
 other feeling than the dread of recognition, joined to a 
 friendly and sisterly desire to procure his release from cap- 
 tivity and his restoriition to his own home, she would have 
 done so. But she felt too well that the once-aronsed jeal- 
 ousy of her lord might now prevent him from reposing full 
 and generous trust and confidence in her — that he would 
 
jJiNONB. 89 
 
 be far more likely to interpret all her most innocent actions 
 wrongly, and to surround her with degrading espionage — . 
 and that, in the end, the innocent captive would probably 
 be subjected to the bitterest persecutions which spite and 
 hatred could invent. 
 
 " I have met him," said she at length, " but only by 
 chance, and without being recognized or, spoken to by him. 
 Nor do I know whether I shall ever chance to meet him 
 again. Is this a crime ? Oh, my lord, what have I done 
 that you should thus strive to set your face against me ? 
 Do you not, in your secret soul, know and believe that there 
 is no. other sjnile than yours for which I live, and that, with- 
 out the love with which you once gladdened me, there can 
 be no rest or peace for me on earth ? Tell me, then, that all 
 this is but a cruel pleasantry to prove my heart, and that 
 there has nothing come between us— or else let me know 
 the worst, in order that I may die." 
 
 Sliding down, until her knees touched the floor, and then 
 winding one arm slowly about his neck, she hid her face in 
 his breast, and, bursting into tears, sobbed aloud. It was 
 not merely the reactionary breaking down of a nervous sys- 
 tem strung to the highest point of undue excitement. It 
 was the half consciousness of a terrible fear lest the day 
 might come in which, goaded by injustice and neglect, she 
 might learn no longer to love the man before her — the wail 
 of a stricken soul pleading that the one to whom her heart 
 had bound her might not fail in his duty to her, but, by a 
 resumption of his focmer kindness and affection, might re- 
 tain her steadfastly in the path of love. 
 
 Touched by the spectacle of her strong agony — aroused 
 
90 ^NONE. 
 
 for the moment to the true realization of all the bitterness 
 and baseness of his unkindness towards her — moved, per- 
 haps, by memories of that time when between them there 
 was pleasant and endearing confidence, and when it was 
 not she who was obliged to plead for love — Sergius drew 
 his arm more closely about her, and, bending over, pressed 
 his lips upcm her forehead. If at that moment the opportu- 
 nity had not failed, who can tell what open and generous 
 confessions might not have been uttered, unrestrained for- 
 giveness sealed, and future miseries prevented ? But at 
 the very moment when the words seemed trembling upon 
 his lips, the door softly opened, and Leta entered. 
 
^NONB. 91 
 
 CHAPTER VIII. 
 
 Raising himself with an assumed air of careless indif- 
 ference, in the hope of thereby concealing the momentary 
 weakness into which his better feelings had so nearly be- 
 trayed him, Sergius strolled off, humming a Gallic wine- 
 song, ^none also arose ; and struggling to stifle her 
 emotion, confronted the new-comer. 
 
 Leta, upon her part, stood silent and impassive, appear- 
 ing to have heard or seen nothing of what had transpired, 
 and to have no thought except that of fulfilling the duty 
 which had brought her thither. But Jilnoue knew that the 
 most unobservant person, upon entering, could not have 
 failed at a glance to comprehend the whole import of the 
 scene — and that therefore any such studied pretence of 
 ignorance was superfluous. The attitude of the parties, 
 the ill-disguised confusion of Sergius, her own tears, which 
 could not be at once entirely repressed — all combined to 
 tell a tale of recrimination, pleading, and bafSed confidence, 
 as plainly as words could have spoken it. Apart, therefore, 
 from her disappointment at being interrupted at the very 
 moment when her hopes had whispered that the happiness 
 of reconciliation might be at hand, JEnone could not but 
 feel indignant that Leta should thus calmly stand before 
 her with that pretence of innocent unconsciousness. 
 
 "Why do you come hither? Who has demanded your 
 
92 ^NONB. 
 
 presence ?" ^none cried, now, in her indignation, caring 
 but little what or how she spoke, or what further revela- 
 tions her actions might occasion, as long as so much had 
 already been exposed. 
 
 "Do I intrude?" rejoined the Greek, raising her eyes 
 with a well-executed air of surprise. "I came but to say 
 that in the antechamber there is — " 
 
 " Listen !" exclaimed jEnone, interrupting her, and taking 
 her by the hand. " Not an hour ago you told me about 
 your quiet home in Samos — its green vines — the blue moun- 
 tains which encircled it — the little chamber where your 
 mother died, and in which you were born — -and the lover 
 whom you left weeping at your cruel absence. You spoke 
 of your affection for every leaf and blade of grass about the 
 place — and how you would give your life itself to go back 
 thither — yes, even your life, for you would be content to lie 
 down and die, if you could first return. Do you remember ?" 
 
 " And now ?" 
 
 " Now, you shall return, as you desired. You have been 
 given to me for my own ; and whether or not the gift be a 
 full and free one, I will claim my rights under it and set 
 you free. In the first ship which sails from Ostia for any 
 port of Greece, in that ship you may depart. Are you con- 
 tent, Leta ?" 
 
 Still holding her by the hand, jEnone gazed inquiringly 
 into the burning black eyes which fastened themselves upon 
 her own, as though reading the bottom of her soul. She 
 could not as yet believe that even if the Greek had actually 
 begun to cherish any love for Sergius, it could be more 
 than a passing fancy, engendered by foolish compliments 
 
^ N O N E . 93 
 
 or ill-judged signs of admiration, and therefore she did not 
 doubt that the offer of freedom and restoration would be 
 gratefully received. Her only uncertainty was with regard 
 to the manner in which it would be listened to — whether 
 with tears of joy or with loud protestations of gratitude- 
 upon bended knees ; or whether the prospect of once again 
 visiting that cottage home and all that had so long been 
 held dear, would come with such unpremeditated intensity 
 as to stifle all outward manifestations of delight, except 
 perhaps, that trembling of the lip or ebb and flow of color 
 which is so often the surest sign of a full and glowing 
 heart. 
 
 For a moment Leta stood gazing up into the face of her 
 mistress, uttering no word of thanks, and with no tear of 
 joy glistening in her eye, but with the deepened flush of 
 uncontrollable emotion overspreading her features. And 
 yet that flush seemed scarcely the token of a heart over- 
 powered with sudden joy, but rather of a mind conscious of 
 being involved in an unexpected dilemma, and puzzled with 
 its inability to extricate itself. 
 
 " My mistress," she responded at length, with lowered 
 gaze, " it is true that I said I would return, if possible, to 
 that other home of mine. But now that you offer me the 
 gift, I would not desire to accept it. Let me stay here 
 with you." 
 
 ^none dropped the hand which till now she had held ; 
 and an agony of mingled surprise, suspicion, disappoint- 
 ment, and presentiment of evil swept across her features. 
 
 " Are you then- become like all others ?" she said with bit- 
 terness. " Has the canker of this Roman life already com- 
 
94 iENONE. 
 
 menced to eat into your soul, so that in future no memory 
 of any thing that is pure or good can attract you from its 
 hollow splendors ? Are thoughts of home, of freedom, of 
 friends, even of the trusted lover of whom you spoke — are 
 all these now of no account, when weighed against a few 
 gilded pleasures ?" 
 
 " Why, indeed, should I care to return to that home ?" 
 responded the girl. " Have not the Roman soldiers trodden 
 down those vines and uprooted that hearth ? Is it a deso- 
 lated and stricken hpme that I would care to see ?" 
 
 " False — ^false !" cried ^none, no longer regardful of her 
 words, but only anxious to give utterance — no matter how 
 rashly — to the suspicions which she had so long and pain- 
 fully repressed. " It is even more than the mere charms of 
 this imperial city which entice you. It is that you are my 
 enemy, and would stay here to sting the hand that was so 
 truly anxious to protect you — -that for your own purposes 
 you would watch about my path, and ever, as now, play 
 the spy upon my actions, and — " 
 
 " Nay, nay 1" cried the Greek, her flashing eye and erect 
 attitude in s1;rong contrast with the softened tone in which, 
 more from habit than from prudence, she had spoken. 
 " When have I played the spy upon you ? Not now, in- 
 deed, for I have come in, not believing that I was doing 
 harm, but simply because my duty has led me hither. I 
 came to tell you that there is a stranger — an old man — 
 standing in the court below, and that he craves audi- 
 ence with_ you. Is this a wrong thing for me to do ? 
 Were I to forbear performance of this duty, would not my 
 neglect insure me punishment ?" 
 
^ N N E . 95 
 
 jEnone answered not, but, by a strong eifort, kept back 
 the words that she would have uttered. Still angry and 
 crushed with the sense of being deceived, and yet conscious 
 that it was not a noble or dignified thing to be in disputa- 
 tion with her own slave, and that there was, moreover, the 
 remote possibility that the girl was not her enemy, and 
 might really dread returning to a desolated and devastated 
 home, what could she say or do ? And while she pondered 
 the matter, the door again opened. 
 
 " And this is he of whom I spoke. Do you doubt me 
 now ?" exclaimed the Greek, in a tone in which a shade of 
 malicious triumph mingled with soft reproach. And she 
 moved away, and left the room, while ^none, lifting her 
 eyes, saw her father standing before her. 
 
 " A plague take the wench who has just left you !" he 
 muttered. "Did she not tell you that I was below? I 
 sent word by her, and here she has left me for half an hour 
 kicking my heels together in the courtyard. And I might 
 have stayed there forever, if I had not of myself found my 
 way up. Even then, there were some who would have 
 stopped me, deeming me, perhaps, too rough in appearance 
 to be allowed to ascend. But I told them that there -Nyas a 
 time when members of the house of Porthenus did not wait 
 in antechambers, but stood beside the consuls of the old re- 
 public, and I touched the hilt of my dagger ; apd whether 
 it was the one argument or the other which prevailed, here 
 I am." 
 
 "With a grim smile the centurion then threw himself down 
 upon a settee near the door, arranged as properly as possi- 
 ble the folds of his coarse tunic, drew his belt round so as 
 
96 ^ N N E . 
 
 to show more in front his dagger with richly embossed 
 sheath — the sole article of courtly and ceremonious attire 
 in which he indulged — and endeavored to assume an easy 
 and imposing attitude. For an instant he gSzed around the 
 room, observantly taking in its wealth of mosaic pavement, 
 paintings, statuary, and vases. Then, as he began to fear 
 lest he might be yielding too much of his pride before the 
 overbearing influence of so much luxury, he straightened 
 himself up, gathered upon his features a hard and somewhat 
 contemptuous expression, and roughly exclaimed : 
 
 " Yes, bj' the gods, the Portheui lived with consuls and 
 proconsuls long before the house of Vanno began to rise 
 from the dregs and become a house at all. And the im- 
 perator knows it, and is jealous of the fact, too, or else he 
 would the better acknowledge it. What, now, is that ?" he 
 added, pointing to the central fresco of .the ceiling. 
 
 " It is — I know not for certain, my father — but I 
 think—" 
 
 " Nay, but I know what it is. It is the old story of the 
 three brothers of the house of Vanno overcoming the five 
 Cimbri at the bridge of Athesis. No great matter, nor so 
 very long ago, even if it were true. But why did he not 
 paint up, instead, how the founder of the Portheni, with his 
 single arm, slew the ten Carthaginians under the aqueduct 
 of Megara ? Is not now your family history a portion of 
 his own ? His jealousy prevented him, I suppose ; though 
 I doubt not that, when in his cups with his high associates, 
 he often boasts of his connection with the house of Porthe- 
 nus. And yet he would let the only relic of the family 
 starve before assisting him." 
 
^ N N E . 97 
 
 ^none stood as in a maze of confusion and uncertainty. 
 Were the trials of the day never to end ? First her un- 
 satisfactory strife and pleading with her husband ; then 
 the undignified contest with her own slave into which she 
 had been betrayed ; and now came this old man — her 
 father, to be sure — but so much the more mortifying to 
 her as his vulgarity, querulous complaining, and insulting 
 strictures were forced upon her ears. 
 
 " Are you not comfortable ? What more can he or I do 
 for you 1" she said, with some impatience. 
 
 " Ay, ay, there it is," growled the centurion. " One per- 
 son must have all luxuries — paintings, silver, and the like ; 
 but if the other has only mere comforts, an extra tunic, 
 perhaps, or a spare bit of meat for a dog, what more can he 
 want ? But I will tell you what you can do. And it is not 
 as a gift, I ask it. Poor and despised as he may be, no 
 one can say that the centurion Porthenus is a beggar. It 
 is as a fair matter of business that I offer it." 
 
 " Well, my father ?" 
 
 " It is this : I have two slaves, and can afford to keep 
 only one of them, particularly as but one can be of use to 
 me. Will the imperator purchase the other ? I will give 
 it for a fair price, and therefore no one can say that I have 
 asked for any thing beyond a proper trade, with which 
 either side should be well satisfied." 
 
 jEnone listened with a blush of shame for her father 
 overspreading her face. It did not occur to her that the 
 slave rejected as useless could be any other than the 
 hunchback, whom her husband had- bestowed upon the cen- 
 turion a few days before ; and for the receiver to try to sell 
 
 5 
 
98 JE N O N E . 
 
 back a gift to the giver was a depth of meanness for which 
 no filial partiality or affection could find an excuse. 
 
 " I will show him to you," cried the centurion, losing a 
 little of his gruffnees in his eagerness to effect a transac- 
 tion, whereby, under the thin guise of a simple trade, he- 
 could extort a benefit. " I have brought him with me, and 
 left him below. You will see that he is of good appear- 
 ance, and that the imperator will be pleased and grateful to 
 me for the opportunity of possessing him." 
 
 So saying, Pprthenus strode to the head of the stairway, 
 and issued his commands in a stern voice, which made the 
 vaulted ceilings of the palace ring. A faint, weak response 
 came up in answer, and in a moment the slave entered the 
 room. 
 
 " Is this the one of whom you spoke ?" faltered ^none, 
 unable for the moment to retain her self-possession as she 
 beheld, not the angular, wiry form of the hunchback, but the 
 care-worn and slim figure of Cleotos. " I thought — indeed 
 — I thought that you spoke of the inferior of the two." 
 
 " Ay, and so I do," responded her father. " Of what 
 use to me can this man be ? The other one, indeed, is of 
 tenfold value. There is no slave in Rome like unto him for 
 cleaning armor or sharpening a weapon, while to run of an 
 errand or manage any piece* of business in which brains 
 must bear their part, I will trust him against the world. 
 But as for this man here, with his weak limbs and his sim- 
 ple face — do you know that I did but set him to polish 
 the rim of a shield, and in his awkwardness he let it fall, 
 and spoiled the surface as though a Jewish spear had 
 stricken it." 
 
^ N O N E . 99 
 
 ^none remained silent, scarcely listening to the words 
 of her father, while, in a troubled manner, she again men- 
 tally ran over, as she had done hundreds of times before, 
 the chanees of recognition by the man who stood before 
 her. 
 
 - "But listen to me still further,", continued the centurion, 
 fearful lest his disparaging comments might defeat the pro- 
 jected sale. " I only speak of him as he is useful or not to 
 me. To another person he would be mostvvaluable ; for, 
 though he cannot polish armor, he can polish verses, and 
 he can write as well- as though he were educated for a 
 scribe. For one favored of fortune like the imperator Ser- 
 gius Vanno,'' and here again the centurion began to roll 
 the high-sounding name upon his tongue with obvious rel- 
 ish, " who wishes an attendant to carry his wine-cup, or to 
 bear his cloak after him, or to trim his lamps, and read aloud 
 his favorite books, where could a better youth than this be 
 found ?" 
 
 ^none, still overpowered by her troubled thoughts, 
 made no response. 
 
 " Or to yourself," eagerly continued the centurion, " he 
 would be most suitable, with his pale, handsome face, and 
 his slender limbs. Have you a page ?" 
 
 " I have my maidens," was the answer. 
 
 " And that amounts to nothing at all," asserted her 
 father. "A plebeian can have her maidens in plenty, but it 
 is not right that the wife of 'a high and mighty imperator 
 shr)uld not also have her male attendants. And the more 
 so when that wife has been taken from an ancient house 
 like that of Porthenus," he added, with a frown in deroga- 
 
100 iGNONE. 
 
 tion of any tendency to give undue importance to her pres- 
 ent position. "But with this Cleotos — come forward, slave, 
 and let yourself be seen.'' 
 
 Cleotos, who, partly from natural diffidence, and partly 
 from being abashed at the unaccustomed splendor about 
 him, had, little by little, from his first entrance, shrunk intp 
 a corner, now advanced ; and ^none, once more resolutely 
 assuring herself that, with the changes which time, position, 
 difference of place and costume had thrown about her, she 
 could defy recognition, summoned all her courage, and 
 looked him in the face. It may have been with an unac- 
 knowledged fear lest, now that she saw him so freely in 
 the broad daylight, some latent spark of the old attach- 
 ment might burst into a flame, and withdraw her heart from 
 its proper duty ; but at the first glance she felt that in this 
 respect she had nothing to dread. In almost every partic- 
 ular, Cleotos had but little changed. His costume was 
 but slightly difierent from that which he had always been 
 accustomed to wear ; for the centurion, in view of the 
 chance of effecting a profitable sale, had, for that occasion, 
 made him put on suitable and becoming attire. The face 
 was still youthful — the eye, as of old, gentle, expressive, 
 and unhardened by the ferocities of the world about him. 
 As ^none looked, it seemed as though the years which had 
 passed rolled back again, and that she was once more a 
 girl. But it also seemed as though something else had 
 passed away — as though she looked not upon a lover, btrt 
 rather upon a quiet, kindhearted, innocent friend — one who 
 could ever be dear to her as a brother, but as nothing else. 
 What was it which had so flitted away that the same 
 
^ N N E . 101 
 
 face could now stir up no fire of passion, but only a friendly 
 interest ? Something, she could not tell what ; but she 
 thanked the gods that it was so, and drew a long breath 
 of relief. 
 
 But it was none the less incumbent upon her, for the 
 sake of that present friendship and for the memory of that 
 old regard, to cast her protection over him. For an instant 
 the thought flashed across her that it would be well to 
 purchase him, not simpily for a page, but so that she could 
 have him in the way of kind treatment and attention until 
 some opportunity of restoring him to his native land might 
 occur. But then again was the danger that, if any great 
 length of time should meanwhile elapse, unconsidered trifles 
 might lead to a recognition. No, that plan could not be 
 thought of. She must keep a protecting eye upon him from 
 a distance, and trust to the future for a safe working out 
 of the problem. 
 
 " It cannot be,'' she murmured, in answer, half to her 
 father, half to her own suggestion. 
 
 " 'Tis well," muttered the centurion, rising with an air of 
 displeasure which indicated that he thought it very ill. " I 
 supposed that it would be a kindness to the imperator or to 
 yourself to give the first offer 'of the man. But it matters 
 little. The captain Polidorus will take him any moment at 
 a fair price." 
 
 " You will not send him to the captain Polidorus ?" ex- 
 claimed ^none in affright. For at once the many atroci- 
 ties of that man towards his slaves rose in her mind — 
 how that he had slain one in a moment of passion — how 
 that he had deliberately beaten another to death for attemptr 
 
102 ^NONB. 
 
 ing to escape to the catacombs — ^how that stripes and tor- 
 ture were the daily portion of, the unfortunates in his 
 power — and that, not by reason of any gross neglect of 
 their duty, but for the merest and most trifling inadverten- 
 cies. Better death than such a fate. 
 
 " Pah 1 What can I do ?" retorted Porthenus, siilfuUy 
 touching the chord of her sympathies, as he saw how sen- 
 sitive she was to its vibrations. " It is true that Polido- 
 rus is no fawning woman, and that he greets his plaves 
 with the rod and the brand, and what not. It is true that 
 he thinks but little of sending one of them to Hades through 
 the avenue of the fish-ponds. But that, after all, is his affair, 
 and if he chooses to destroy his property, what should it 
 matter to me ? Am I so rich that I can afford to lose a 
 fair purchaser because he may incline to hang or drown 
 his bargain ? Such self-denial may suit the governor of 
 a province, but should not be expected of a poor centu- 
 rion." 
 
 jEnone trembled, and again the impulse to make the pur- 
 chase came upon her. Better to risk any thing for herself 
 — recognition, discovery, suspicion, or misconstruction — than 
 'that her friendship should so far fail as to allow this poor 
 captive to fall into the hands of a brutish tyrant. There 
 was a purse of gold in the half-opened drawer of a table 
 which stood near her ; and, in sore perplexity, she raised 
 it, then let it fall, and again lifted it. As the centurion 
 listened to the ring of the metal, his eyes sparkled, and he 
 prepared to apply new arguments, when Cleptos' himself 
 sprang forward. 
 
 ''I know nothing about this Polidorus of whom they 
 
2<! N N E . 103 
 
 spea^," he said, dropping upon one knee at her feet. " And 
 it is not to save myself from his hands that I ask your 
 pity. There is much that I have ah-eady suffered, and 
 perhaps a little more n)ig'ht make no difference, or, better 
 yet, might close the scene with me forever. It is for 
 other reasons that I would wish to be in this house 
 — even as the lowest, meanest slave of all, rather than 
 to live in the halls of the Emperor Titus himself. There 
 is one in this house, from whom I have long been cruelly 
 separated, and who — what can I say but that if, when 
 I was a free man, she gave me her love, now, in my 
 abasement, she will not fail with that love to brighten 
 my lot?" 
 
 ^none started. At hearing such words, there could be 
 but one thought in her mind — that he had actually recog- 
 nized her, and that, without waiting to see whether or not 
 she Had forgotten him, and certainly knowing that in any 
 event her position towards him had tiecome changed,, he 
 was daring to covertly suggest a renewal of their old rela- 
 tionship. But the next words reassured her. 
 
 "We lived near each other in Samos,'' he continued. " I 
 was happy, and I blessed the Fates for smiling upon us. 
 How was I then to know that she would be torn away from 
 me upon the very day when I was to have led her. to my 
 own home ?" 
 
 " You say that she is here ? Is it — do you speak of 
 Leta ?" cried ^none. 
 
 "Leta was her name," he responded, in some surprise 
 that his secret had been so promptly penetrated before he 
 had more than half unfolded it. " And she is here." 
 
104 ^NONE. 
 
 There was to JEnone perhaps one instant of ahnost un- 
 conscious regret at learniug that she had been forgotten for 
 another. But it passed away like a fleeting cloud — ban- 
 ished from her mind by the full blaze of happiness which 
 poured in upon her at the thought that here at last was 
 what would counteract the cruel schemes which were war- 
 ring against her peace, and would thereby bring sure relief 
 to her sorrow. 
 
 " And she is here," repeated Cleotos. " When at the 
 first she was torn from my side, I would have died, if I 
 could, for I did not believe that life had any further bless- 
 ing in store for me. But, though the Roman armies were 
 cruel, the Fates have been kind, and have again brought 
 us near. It was but a week ago that, as I looked up by 
 the moonlight at these palace walls, I saw her. Can it be, 
 that after so long a time, the gods meant I should be 
 brought near, to have but this one glimpse of happiness 
 and then again be sundered from it ?" 
 
 " It cannot be — it was not meant to be !" exclaimed 
 Muone, with energy ; and again lifting the purse of gold, 
 she placed it in the centurion's hand. " There, I will pur- 
 chase your slave," she said. " Take from this his proper 
 price, and leave him with me." 
 
^ N N B . 105 
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 
 The centurion received the purse with ill-dissembled joy. 
 Had he been fully able to control himself, he would doubt- 
 less have maintained a quiet air of dignified self-possession, 
 befitting one giving full value for what he had received, 
 and therefore not expected to exhibit any peculiarly marked 
 or lively satisfaction. But the afl'air had been concluded 
 so suddenly, and with such a liberal confidence in his 
 discretion, that for the moment his hands trembled with 
 excitement, and his face shone with avaricious pleasure. 
 
 Then he began to count out the gold pieces, gleefully 
 dropping some into his pouch, and reluctantly putting others 
 back into the purse. From the first he had established in 
 his own mind the valuation which he would place upon the 
 slave ; and he had taken care to make his calculation upon 
 such a liberal scale that he could well afford to consent to a 
 large reduction, if it were required of him." But ;iow he 
 "reasoned that, as his child had merely told him to take out 
 what was proper, there could be no impropriety in paying' 
 himself at the highest possible price. She would never 
 mind, and there were many comforts which he needed, and 
 which an extra gold piece or two would enable him to pro- 
 cure for himself. 
 
 Then, as he weighed the purse and pondered over it, 
 . 5* 
 
106 ^NONB. 
 
 numerous wantg and requirements, which he had hardly 
 known until that time, came into his mind. He might 
 supply them all, if he were not too timid or scrupulous in 
 availing himself of an opportunity such as might never 
 come to him again. Had even his first valuation of the 
 slave been a sufficient one ? He ought certainly to con- 
 sider that the man could read and write, and was of such 
 beauty and grace that he could be trained to a most courtly 
 air ; and it was hardly proper to sell him for no more than 
 the price of a couple of gladiators, mere creatures of bone 
 and brawn. And, in any event, it was hardly probable 
 that iEnone knew the true value of slaves, or even remem- 
 bered how much her purse had contained. 
 
 Thus meanly reflecting, the centurion dropped more of the 
 gold pieces into his pocket, all the while eyeing the slave 
 with keen scrutiny, as though calculating the market value 
 of every hair upon his head. Then, with a sigh, he handed 
 back the purse, most wofully lightened of its contents, and 
 turned from the room, endeavoring to Compose his features 
 into a decent appearance of sober indifference, and mutter- 
 ing that he would not have allowed himself to be betrayed 
 into giving up such a prize so cheaply had it not been that 
 he had an especial regard for the imperator Sergius Vanno, 
 and that the house of Porthenus had never nourished mere ' 
 traders to wrangle and chaffer over their property. 
 
 In one of his conjectures he had been correct. It was 
 little that iEnone knew or cared about the price she was 
 paying. Had the purse been returned to her entirely 
 empty, she would have thrown it unheedingly into the 
 drawer, and have never dreamed but that all had been 
 
-aENONE. 107 
 
 rightly done. There was now but one idea filling her heart. 
 She thought not about money nor any imprudence which 
 she was committing, nor yet upon the chance of recog- 
 nition. She only reflected that the day of her triumph had 
 come — that at the sight of the long-absent lover, Leta 
 would abandon the wrong path in which she had been 
 straying, would throw herself into his arms, would tell him 
 how, through the loss of him, she had become reckless, and 
 had allowed her sufiering mind to become perverted from 
 the right — but that now all was again well ; and thus con- 
 fessing and being forgiven, would, in the ever-present joj' 
 of that forgiveness, lead for the future a different life, and,- 
 instead of a rival, become to her mistress a friend and ally. 
 
 Glowing with this bright hope, ^none scarcely noticed 
 the shuffling departure of the centurion, but fixing her eyes 
 upon the captive, keenly scrutinized his appearance. Not 
 that it was likely that Leta, in the first flush of her joy at 
 meeting him, would notice or care in what guise he was 
 presented, so long as the soul which had so often responded 
 to her own was there.- But it was well that there should 
 be nothing neglected which, without being directly essen- 
 tial to the production of a proper impression, might be trib- 
 utary to it. 
 
 The inspection was satisfactory. Not only was the dress 
 of the captive clean, neat, becoming, and suitable to his 
 station, but his appearance had undergone visible improve- 
 ment since iEnone had last seen him. The rest and par- 
 tial composure of even the few intervening days had suf- 
 ficed to restore tone to his complexion, roundness to his 
 cheeks, and something of the old merry smile to his eyes, 
 
108 JBNONE. 
 
 And though complete restoration was not yet effected, 
 enough had been accomplished to show that there was much 
 latent beauty which would not fail to develop Itself under 
 the stimulant of additional care and kindly treatment. 
 
 " Go in, thither," said Mnone, pointing to the adjoin- 
 ing room, in which Leta was occupied. "When you are 
 there, you will — it will be told you what you are to do." 
 
 Cleotos bowed low, and passed through into the other 
 room ; and .^Enone followed him with a glance which be- 
 trayed the longing she felt to enter with him and witness 
 the meeting of the two lovers. But a sense of propriety 
 outweighed her curiosity and restrained her. It was not 
 right, indeed, that she should intrude. Such recognitions 
 should be sacred to the persons directly interested in them. 
 She would therefore remain outside, and there await Cleo- 
 tos' return. And as she took into her hands a little parch- 
 ment ode which lay upon her table, and nervously endeav- 
 ored to interest herself in it, she delightedly pictured the 
 sudden transport of those within the next apartment, and 
 the beaming look of joy 'with which, hand in hand, they 
 would finally emerge to thank her for their newly gained 
 happiness. n 
 
 In the mean time, Leta, having delivered her message, 
 and received her rebuke for the interruption, had retired to 
 the other room, and there, as usual, resumed her daily task 
 of embroidery. Bending low Over the intricate stitches and 
 counting their spaces, Tier features, at a casual glance, still 
 bore their impress of meek and unconscious humility, so far 
 did her accustomed self-pontrol seem to accompany her even 
 when alone. But a more attentive scrutiny would have de- 
 
^ N N E . 109 
 
 tected, half hidden beneath the fringed eyelids, a sparkle of 
 gratified triumph, and in the slightly bent corners of the 
 mouth, a shade of haughty disdain ; and little by little, as 
 the moments progressed, these indications of an inner, irre- 
 pressible nature gained in intensity, and as though her fin- 
 gers were stayed by a. tumult of thought, her work slowly 
 began to slip from her grasp. 
 
 At length, lifting her head, and, perhaps, for the first time 
 realizing that she was alone and might indulge her impulses 
 without restraint, she abruptly threw from her the folds of 
 the embroidery, and stood erect. Why should she longer 
 trifle with that weak affair of velvet and dyes ? Who was 
 the poor, feeble, and tearful statue in the next room, to order 
 her to complete those tasks ? What to herself were the past 
 deeds of the house of Vauno, that they should be perpetu- 
 ated in ill-fashioned tapestry, to be hung around a gilded 
 banquet-hall ? By the gods ! she would from that day 
 make a new history in the family life ; and it should be 
 recorded, not with silken threads upon inanimate velvet, 
 but should be engraved deeply and ineffaceably upon 
 human hearts. 
 
 Standing motionless in the centre of the room, with one 
 foot upon the half-completed tapestry, she now, for the first 
 time, and in a flash' of inspiration, gave shape and comeli- 
 ness to her previous confusedly arranged ideas. Until the 
 present moment she had had but little thought of accom- 
 plishing any thing beyond skilfully availing herself of her 
 naturarl attractions so as to climb from her menial position 
 into something a little better and higher. If, in the strug- 
 gle to raise herself from the degradation of slavery, she 
 
110 ^NONE. 
 
 were obliged to engage in a rivalry with her mistress, and 
 by robbing her of the affection naturally belonging to her, 
 were to crush her to the earth, it was a thing to be deplored, 
 but it must none the less be done. She might, perhaps, 
 pity the victim, but the sacrifice must be accomplished all 
 the same. 
 
 But now these vague dreams of a somewhat better lot, to 
 be determined bj- future chance circumstances, rolled away 
 like a shapeless cloud, and left in their place one bright 
 image as the settled object of her ambition. So lofty^ so 
 dazzling seemed the prize, that another person would have 
 shrunk in dismay from even the thought of striving for it, 
 and even she, for the moment, recoiled. But she was of too 
 determined a nature to falter long. The higher the object 
 to be attained, the fewer would be the competitors and the 
 greater the chance of success to unwearying determination. 
 And *if there were but one chance in a thousand, it were 
 still worth the struggle. 
 
 This great thought which stimulated her ambition was 
 nothing less than the resolution to become the wife of tlie 
 imperator Sergius. At first it startled her with its apparent 
 wild extravagance ; but little by little, as she weighed the 
 chances, it seemed to become more practicable. There was, 
 indeed, nothing grossly impossible in the idea. Men of high 
 rank had ere now married their slaves, and the corrupted 
 society of Rome had winked at mesalliances which, in the 
 days of the republic, would not have been tolerated. And 
 she was merely a slave from accidental circumstances — 
 being free-born, and having, but a month before, been the 
 pride and ornament of a respectable though lowly family. 
 
^ N O N B . Ill 
 
 Once let her liberty be restored, and the scarcely percepti- 
 ble taint of a few weeks' serfdom be removed from her, and 
 she would be, in all social respects, fully the equal of the 
 poor, trembling maid of Ostia, to whom, a few years before, 
 the patrician had not been ashamed to stoop. 
 
 This bar of social inequality thus removed, the rest might 
 be in her own hands. Sergius no longer felt for his wife 
 the old affection, under the impulse of which he had wed- 
 ded her ; and the few poor remains of the love which he 
 still cherished, more from habit than otherwise, were fast 
 disappearing. This was already so evident as to have 
 become the common gossip of even the lowliest slaves 
 in the household. And he loved herself instead, for not 
 only his actions, but his words had told her so. A little 
 more craft and plotting, therefore — a little further display 
 of innocent and lowly meekness and timid obedience — a 
 few more well-considered efforts to .widen the conjugal 
 breach — a week or two more persistent exercise of those 
 fascinations which men were so feeble to resist — -jealousy, 
 recrimination, quarrels, and a divorce — and the whole thing- 
 might be accomplished. In those days of laxity, divorce 
 was an easy matter. In this case there was no family in- 
 fluence upon the part of the wife to be set up in opposition 
 — but merely an old centurion, ignorant and powerless. A 
 few writings, for form's sake — and the, day that sent the 
 weeping wife from the door might install the manumitted 
 and triumphant slave in her place. 
 
 All aglow with the ravishing prospect — her eager hopes 
 converting the possible into the probable, and again, by a 
 rapid change, the probable into the certain — the Greek stood 
 
112 ^NONE. 
 
 spurning the needle-work at lier feet. Then glancing 
 around, the whim seized upon her to assume, for a moment 
 in advance, her coming stately dignity. At the side of the 
 room, upon "a slightly elevated platform, was a crimson 
 lounge — jEnone's especial and proper seat. Over one arm 
 of this lounge hung, in loose folds, a robe of purple velvet, 
 with an embroidered fringe of pearls — a kind of cloak of 
 state, usually worn by her upon the reception of ceremoni- 
 ous visits. To this lounge Leta strode, threw herself upon 
 it, drew the velvet garment over her shoulders, so that the 
 long folds fell down gracefully and swept the marble pave- 
 ment at her feet, and there, half sitting, half reclining, as- 
 sumed an attitude of courtly dignity, as though mistress of 
 the palace. 
 
 And it must be confessed that she well suited the place. 
 With her lithe, graceful figure thrown into a position in 
 which the gentle languor of unembarrassed leisure was 
 mingled with the dignity of queenly state — with her burn- 
 ing eyes so tempered in their brilliancy that they seemed 
 ready at the same instant to bid defiance to impertinent 
 intrusion, and to bestow gracious condescension upon sup- 
 pliant timidity — with every feature glowing with that prop- 
 er pride which is not arrogance, and that proper kindli- 
 ness which is not humility — there was probably in all Rome 
 no noble matron who could as well adorn her chair of cere- 
 mony. Beside her, the true mistress of the place would have 
 appeared as a timid child dismayed with unaccustomed hon- 
 ors ; and in comparison, an empress might not fill her throne 
 in the palace of the Cfesars with half the grace and dignity. 
 
 Then, as she there sat, momentarily altering her attitude 
 
^ N N E . ■ 113 
 
 to correspond the better with her ideas of proper bearing, 
 and gathering into newer and more pleasing folds the 
 sweeping breadths of the velvet mantle, the door was slow- 
 ly swung open, and there glided noiselessly in, clad in its 
 neat and coarse tunic, the timid figure of her old lover 
 Cleotbs. 
 
 For an instant they remained gazing at each other as 
 though paralyzed. Cleotos, who had looked to see her in 
 her simple white vestment as as of old, and had expected 
 at her first glance to rush to her arms, and there be al- 
 lowed to pour forth his joy at again meeting her, never 
 more to part — beheld with dismay this gorgeously arrayed 
 and queenly figure. This could not be the Leta whom he 
 had known ; or, if so, how changed I Was this the cus- 
 tomary attire of slaves in high-placed families ? Or could 
 it be the token of a guilty favoritism ? His heart sank 
 within him ; and he stood nervously clinging against the 
 door behind him, fearing to advance, lest, at the first 
 step, some terrible truth, of which he had already seemed 
 to feel the premonitions, might burst iipon him. 
 
 And she, for the moment, sat aghast, not knowing but 
 that the gods, to punish her pride and ambition, had sent 
 a spectre to confront her. But being of strong mind and 
 little given to superstitious terrors, she instantly rea- 
 soned out the facts of his simultaneous captivity with her- 
 self and coincidence of ownership ; and her sole remaining 
 doubt was in what manner she should treat him. They 
 had parted in sorrow and tears, and she knew that he 
 now expected her to fall into his arms and there repeat' 
 her former vows of constancy and love. But that could 
 
114 iENONB. 
 
 not be. Had he come to her but an hour iefore, while 
 her dreams of the future were of a vague and unsatis- 
 factory character, she might have acted upon such an im- 
 pulse. But now, a glorious vision of what might pos- 
 sibly happen had kindled her ambition with brighter fires 
 than ever before ; and could she surrender all that, and 
 think again only upon starving freedom in a cottage home ? 
 
 " Is it thou, Cleotos ? Welcome to Rome I" she said at 
 length, throwing from her shoulder the purple cloak, and 
 approaching him. As she spoke, she held out her hand. He 
 took it in his own, in a lifeless and mechanical sort of 
 way, and gazed into her face with a strange look of in- 
 quiring doubt, which momentarily settled into an expres- 
 sion of deeper apprehension. The blackness of despair 
 began to enter into his soul. Now that she was divest- 
 ed of her borrowed riches, she looked more like herself, 
 and that was surely her voice uttering tones of greeting ; 
 but somehow her heart did not seem to be in them, and, 
 for a certainty, this had not been her wonted style of 
 welcome. 
 
 '-' I thought," she continued, " that thou wert slain. Cer- 
 tainly when I parted from you ere you fled into the moun- 
 tains — " 
 
 "You know that I fled not at all," he interrupted, the 
 color mounting into his temples. "Why do you speak 
 so, Leta ? I retired to the mountains to meet my friends 
 there, and with them carry on the defence ; and previous 
 thereto, I conducted you to what I believed to be a place 
 of safety. And I fought my best against the foe, and 
 was brought nigh unto death. This I»did, though I can 
 
iE N O N E . 115 
 
 boast of but a weak and slender frame. And it is hard 
 that the first greeting of one so well loved as you 
 should be a taunt." 
 
 " Nay, forgive me," she said. " I doubt not your valor. 
 It was but in forgetfulness that I spoke. I meant it not 
 for a taunt." And in truth, she had not so meant it. 
 It was but the inadvertent expression of a feeling which 
 the sight of his feeble and boyish figure unwittingly 
 produced upon her — an incapacity to connect deeds of 
 valor with apparent physical weakness. ,But this very 
 inability to judge of his true nature by the soul that 
 strove to look into her own rather than by material im- 
 pressions, was perhaps no slight proof of the little uni- 
 son between her nature, and his. 
 
 " Sit down here," she continued, " and tell me all that 
 has happened to you." And they sat together, and he 
 briefly told her of his warlike adventures, his wound, his 
 captivity, his recogtiition of herself, and his successful 
 attempt to be once more under the same roof with her. 
 And somehow it still seemed to him that their talk was 
 not as of old, and that her sympathy with his misfor- 
 tunes was but weak and cheerless ; and though he tried 
 to interweave the customary words of endearment with 
 his story, there was a kind of inner check upon him, so 
 that they came not readily to his lips as of old. And 
 she sat, trying to listen, and indeed keeping the thread 
 of his adventures in her mind ; but all the while find- 
 ing her attention fail as she speculated how she could 
 best give that explanation of her feelings which she knew 
 would soon be demanded of her. 
 
116 ^NONE. 
 
 " And here I am at last, Lata — as yourself, a slave 1" 
 he concluded. 
 
 " Courage, my friend !" was her answer. " There are 
 very many degrees and fates reserved- for all in this 
 old Rome, and much for every man to learn. And many 
 a one who has begun as a slave has, in the end, at- 
 tained not only to freedom, but to high honor and sta- 
 tion." 
 
 " If the gods were to give me honor and station, far be 
 it from me to refuse the gift," he said. " But that, of itself 
 alone, would not content me, unless you were there to share 
 the good with me. And with yourself I would crave no 
 other blessing. We are slaves here, Leta, but even that 
 fate may have its mitigations and happiness for us." 
 
 She was silent. How could she tell it to him ? But his 
 suspicions, at first vague, were now aroused by her very 
 silence into more certainty. 
 
 " Tell me," he cried, again taking her hand, " tell me my 
 fate ; and if sorrow is to come upon me, let it come now. 
 It seems as though there were indeed evil tidings in stoi'e 
 for me. The blight of anticipated evil even weighed upon 
 me ere I passed yonder hall, and when I knew no reason 
 why I should not find you loving of heart and humble of 
 desire as in other days. Is it all gone ? Are you no longer 
 the same ? This tawdry velvet in which I found you ar- 
 rayed — is it the type of a something equally foreign to 
 your nature, and which imperial Rome has thrown about you 
 to aid in crushing out the better feelings of your heart ?" 
 
 " My friend, my brother," she said at length, with some 
 real pity and some false sorrow, " why have we again met? 
 
JEN ONE. 117 
 
 Why is it now forced upon me to tell you that the past 
 must always be the past with us ?" 
 
 He dropped her hand, and the tears started into his eyes. 
 Much as the words and gestures of the last few minutes 
 had prepared him for the announcement, yet when it came, 
 it smote him as though therfe had been no premonition of it ; 
 so lovingly had his heart persisted in clinging to the faint 
 hope that he might have been mistaken. A low wail of 
 anguish burst from his lips. 
 
 " And this is the end of all ?" he sobbed. 
 
 " Think only," she said, " think only that I am not worthy 
 of you." 
 
 " The old story— the old story which has been repeated 
 from the beginning of the world," he cried, stung into life 
 by something of heartlessness which he detected in her 
 affected sympathy. '.' The woman weaves her toils about 
 the man — gilds his life until there is no brightness which 
 can compare with it — fills his heart with high hopes of a 
 blissful future — so changes his soul that he can cherish no 
 thought but of her — so alters the whole tenor and purpose 
 of his existence that he even welcomes- slavery as a pre- 
 cious boon because it brings him under the same roof with 
 her. And then — some other fancy having crossed her mind 
 — or an absence of a week or two having produced forget- 
 fulness — she insults him with a cruel mockery of self-un- 
 worthiness as her sole apology for perfidy." 
 
 " Nay,'' she exclaimed, half glad of an excuse to quarrel 
 with him. " If you would rather have it otherwise, think, 
 then, that I have never loved you as I should, even though 
 I may have imagined that I did." 
 
118 SNONE. 
 
 " Go on," he said, seeing that she hesitated. 
 
 " I know," she continued, " that in other days you have 
 had my words for it, uttered, indeed, in sympathy and 
 truth, as I then felt them. But I was a simple girl then, 
 Cleotos. The sea before me and the mountains behind 
 bounded all my knowledge of the world. The people whom 
 I saw were but few. The tastes I had were simple. Is it 
 wonderful that I should have listened to the first one who 
 spoke to me of love, and should have imagined that my 
 heart made response to him ? But now — now, Cleotos — " 
 
 " Now, what 1" he exclaimed. " Would you say that 
 now you have seen the world better and think differently ? 
 What is there in all that you have since known that should 
 change you ? Is it that the sight of war and tumult — of 
 burning towns and bleeding captives — of insolent soldiers 
 and cruel taskmasters can have made you less in favor with 
 our own native, vine-covered retreat, with its neighborhood 
 of simple peasantry ? Or would you say that since then 
 you have met others whom you can love better than me ? 
 Whom, indeed, have you seen but weary prisoners like my- 
 self, or else unpitying conquerors whose love would be your 
 shame ? You blush, Leta ! Pray the gods that it be not 
 the latter ! Struggle sternly with yourself to realize that 
 you are merely for the moment fascinated by the unaccus- 
 tomed splendors of this swarming city ; and that after its 
 first brightness has worn off from your dazzled eyes, your 
 soul may return to its native, pure simplicity and inno- 
 cence, and — and to me." 
 
 " Speak not so, Cleotos," she responded. " My eyes are 
 not dazzled with any splendors ; but for all that, our ways 
 
^NONB. 119 
 
 now and forever lie in different directions. We are slaves, 
 and can give little heed to our affections. Our only course 
 must be for each to strive to rise above this serfdom ; and 
 if, in thus striving, either can help the other, it must be done 
 ' — ^but in friendship, not in love. To you, through good con- 
 duct, there may open, even in slavery, many posts of influ- 
 ence and profit ; and, in so much, of better worth than our 
 own boasted liberty with poverty. And as for me — I see 
 my destiny already beckoning me to a position such as 
 many a free Roman woman might envy.'' 
 
 Speaking thus obscurely of her anticipated grandeur — to 
 be gained, perhaps, by abasement, but none the less hi her 
 mind certain to end in such legitimate position as might 
 sanctify the previous steps thereto— her face again lit up 
 with a glow of pride, as though she were already the pow- 
 erful patrician's wife. And revelling in such dreams, she 
 saw not the agony which overspread her listener's face as 
 he read her thoughts partly awrong, and believed her con- 
 tent to throw herself away forever, in order to gain some 
 temporary exaltation as a wealthy Roman's plaything. 
 
 "And when that day does come," she continued, "if, for 
 the memory of our old friendship, I can help to elevate you 
 to some better sphere — " 
 
 " Enough ! No more 1" he cried bitterly ; and starting 
 from her, he fled out of the room. It were hard enough 
 that he should lose her, harder yet that he should hear her 
 marking out for herself a life of ruin for some temporary 
 gain, but harder than all, that she should dare to mistake 
 his nature, so far as to insult him with the promise of ad- 
 vancing his prosperity through such an influence. 
 
120 ^ N N E . 
 
 " Let me go hence !" he cried, in his agony, to ^none, 
 who, still radiant with the whisperings of her newly dis- 
 covered hope, met him at the door. " Send me to the 
 captain Polidorus^-anywhere — only let me leave this 
 house I" 
 
^ N N E . 121 
 
 CHAPTEE X. 
 
 But though ^none's sanguinely conceived plan for Cle- 
 otos' happiness had so cruelly failed, it was not in her 
 heart to yield to his passionate, unreflecting demand, and 
 send him away from her, even to a kinder home than he 
 would have found at the house of the captain Polidorus. 
 It would but increase his ill fortune, by enforcing still 
 greater isolation from every fount of human sympathy. 
 Though the affection of the wily Leta had been with- 
 drawn from him, her own secret friendship yet remained, 
 and could be a protection to him as long as he was at 
 her side ; and in many ways she could yet extend her 
 care and favor over him, until such time as an outward 
 bound vessel might be found in which to restore him to 
 his native country. 
 
 Whether there was any instinct at the bottom of her 
 heart, telling her that, in the possibility of trying events 
 to come, his friendship might be equally serviceable to 
 her, and that, even in the mere distant companionship of 
 a slave with his mistress, she might feel a certain pro- 
 tecting influence, she did not stop to ask. Neither did 
 she inquire whether she wished to retain him for his own 
 benefit alone, and without thought of any happiness or 
 comfort to be derived by her from his presence. Had 
 
 6 
 
122 ^ N N E . 
 
 she been accustomed closely to analyze her feelings, she 
 might have perceived, perhaps, that in her growing isola- 
 tion, it was no unpleasant thing to look upon the fea- 
 tures and listen to the tones which carried her memory 
 back to her early days of poverty, when, except for a 
 short interval, her life had been at its happiest. But had 
 she known and acknowledged all this, it would not have 
 startled her, for she would have felt that, in her heart, 
 there was not the slightest accompanying shade of dis- 
 loyalty. Her nature was not one to admit of sudden trans- 
 fers of allegiance. It was rather one in which a real 
 love would last forever. When the first romantic liking 
 for Cleotos had consumed itself, from the ashes there had 
 sprung no new passion for him, but merely the ilowers 
 of earnest, true-hearted friendship. And it was her mis- 
 fortune, perhaps, that the real love for another which had 
 succeeded would not in turn consume itself, but would 
 continue to flourish green and perennial, though now 
 seemingly fated to bask no longer in the sunshine of 
 kindly words and actions, but only to cower beneath 
 the chill of harsh and wanton neglect. 
 
 Cleotos therefore remained — at first passing weary days 
 of bitter, heart-breaking despondency. His lost liberty 
 he had borne without much complaint, fojr it was mere- 
 ly the fortune of war, and hundreds of his countrymen 
 were sharing the same fate \yith him. But to lose that 
 love upon which he had believed all the happiness of his 
 life depended, was a blow to which, for a time, no phi- 
 losophy could reconcile him — the more particularly as tfie 
 manner in which that loss had been forced upon him 
 
^ N N E . 123 
 
 seemed, to his sensitive nature, to be marked by pecu- 
 liar severity. To have had Leta torn from him in any 
 ordinary way — to part with her in some quarrel in which 
 either side might be partially right, and thenceforth never 
 to see her again — or to be obliged to yield her up to the 
 superior claims of an open generous rivalry — any of these 
 things would, in itself, have been sufficient affliction. But 
 it was far worse than all this to be obliged to meet her 
 at every turn, holding out her hand to him in pleasant 
 greeting, and uttering words of welcoming import ; and 
 all with an unblushing appearance of friendly interest, 
 as though his relations with her had never been other 
 than those of a fraternal character, and as though, upon 
 being allowed her riiere friendship, there could be nothing 
 of which he had a right to complain. 
 
 At first, in the agony of his heart, he had no strength 
 to rise above the weight which crushed him, and to 
 obey the counsels of his pride so far as to play before 
 her a part of equally assumed indifference. To her 
 smiling greetings he could return only looks of bitter 
 despair or passionate entreaty — vainly hoping that he 
 might thereby arouse her better nature,* and bring her 
 in repentance back to him. And at first sight it seemed 
 not impossible that such a thing might take place ; for, 
 in the midst of all her change of conduct and wilful 
 avoidance of allusion to the past, she felt no dislike of 
 him. It was merely her love for him that she had sup- 
 pressed, and in its place there still remained a warm 
 regard. If he could have been content with her friend- 
 ship alone, she would have granted it all, and would 
 
124 ^NONE. 
 
 have rejoiced, for tlie sake of olden times, to use her in- 
 fluence with others in aid of his upward progress. Per- 
 haps there were even times when, as she looked upon 
 his misery and thought of the days not so very far 
 hack, in which he had been all in all to her, her heart 
 may have been melted into something of its former affec- 
 tion. But if so, it was only for a moment, nor did she 
 ever allow the weakness to be seen. Her path had been 
 taken, and nothing now could make her swerve from it. 
 Before her enraptured fancy gleamed the state and rank 
 belonging to a patrician's wife ; and as she wove her 
 toils with all the resources of her cunning, the prize 
 seemed to approach her nearer and nearer. Now hav- 
 ing advanced so far, she must not allow a momentary 
 weakness to imperil all. And therefore unwaveringly 
 she daily met her former lover with the open smile of 
 friendly greeting, inviting confidence, mingled with the 
 same indescribable glance, forbidding any renewal of 
 love. 
 
 And so days passed by, and Cleotos, arousing from 
 his apathetic despair, felt more strongly that, if the lapse 
 of love into mere friendship is a misfortune, the offer of 
 friendship as a substitute for promised love is a mockery 
 and an insult ; and his soul rebelling at being made a pas- 
 sive party to such a bargain, he began himself to play 
 the retaliatory part which a wronged nature naturally 
 suggests to itself. Like Leta, he learned to hold out 
 the unresponsive hand in careless greeting, or to mut- 
 ter meaningless and cold compliments, and, in any com- 
 munication with her, to assume all the appearances of in- 
 
«. ^NONE. 125 
 
 different acquaintanceship. At first, indeed, it was with 
 an aching heart struggling in his breast, and an agony 
 of wounded spirit tempting him to cast away all such 
 studied pretences, and to throw himself upon her mercy, 
 and meanly beg for even the slightest return of her for- 
 mer affection. But gradually, as he perceived how vain 
 would be such self-abasemeht,^ and how its display would 
 rather tend to add contempt to her indifference, his pride 
 came to rescue him from such a course ; and he began 
 more and more to tune the temper of his mind to his 
 actions, and to feel something of the same coldness 
 which he outwardly displayed. 
 
 Not but that for awhile such a disposition -was forced 
 and unnatural ; and however steadily composed he felt, 
 and strongly fortified in his stubborn pride, a look or a 
 word from her would have brought him again a willing 
 slave to her feet. But that look or word was not given. 
 Perhaps, in her eager struggle after the glittering prize 
 which she had held out before herself, she disdained the 
 love which had once delighted her ; perhaps, actuated 
 by a purer and less selfish motive, her friendship' for 
 Cleotos forbade her, in mere wanton pride, to keep open 
 the wound which she had made. Whatever the reason, 
 the withdrawal of the fascinations which had once at- 
 tracted him, gave his mind leisure and opportunity to 
 reason with itself in more quietude and composure 
 than could have been expected. And, as he more and 
 more began to realize how closely she was wrapped up 
 in her ambition, to the exclusion of any gentler feeling, 
 and how, under the stimulant of her infatuated hopes, 
 
126 ^ N N B . 
 
 she was allowing herself each day to act with less 
 guarded resolution, there were times when he found 
 himself asking whether she had indeed changed from 
 what she had been ; or whether, on the contrary, she 
 had not always, at heart, been the same as now, and 
 his conception of her true character been at fault. 
 
 But, in proportion as the veil of error seemed lifted from 
 his soul, letting calm content once more shine in upon him, 
 so, on the other hand, did a night of despair slowly settle 
 upon jEnone. By no reasoning could she longer urge upon 
 herself the belief that the neglect with which her lord treated 
 her could be traced to any inoffensive cause. Claims of 
 court— urgency of military duties — exactions of business 
 might easily account for transitory slights, but not for long- 
 sustained periods of indifference, unbroken by a single word 
 of kindness. And as days passed by and this indifference 
 continued, until at times seeming ready to give place to 
 openly expressed dislike, and her ears became more and 
 more accustomed to words of hasty petulance, and Sergius 
 grew still deeper absorbed in the infatuation which pos- 
 sessed him, and less careful to conceal its influences from 
 her, and the Greek girl glided hither and thither, ever 
 less- anxious, as she believed her triumph more nearly 
 assured, to maintain the humble guise which she had at first 
 assumed, ^none felt that there had indeed come upon her- 
 self a sorrow from which there could be no escape. 
 And as again she pondered upon the few projects for 
 relief which suggested themselves to her agitated mind, 
 and laid one after another aside, with the conviction that it 
 would but aggravate the evil, it seemed at last as though 
 
^ N N E . 127 
 
 the only course left to her was to lie down in her sorrow 
 and die. 
 
 It was no uncommon thing then, as now, for the husband 
 to neglect his wife. All Rome rang with the frequent story 
 of marital wrong. But those were days in which the ma- 
 tron did not generally accept her desertion with meekness. 
 Brought up in a fevered, unscrupulous society, she had her 
 own retaliatory resources ; and if no efforts were sufficient 
 to bring back the wandering affection, she could recompense 
 herself elsewhere for its loss, secure that her wrongs would 
 be held as a justification, and that her associates, equally 
 aggrieved and avenged, would applaud her course. But 
 with ^none, brought up in a provincial town, under the 
 shelter of her own native purity and innocence, no such 
 idea could find countenance. Even the thought which 
 sometimes dimly presented itself, that by some harmless 
 coquetry she might perhaps excite her husband's jealousy, 
 and thereby chance to win back his love, was one which 
 she always stifled in its beginning as weak and unworthy. 
 
 But the recompenses of friendship were still left to her, 
 and it was surely doing no wrong to accept them. There- 
 fori, the more she realized that her source of real happi- 
 ness was becoming estranged from her, so much the more 
 did she feel naturally drawn towards' the society of Cleotos. 
 To her, of course, he was not a mere slave, but rather a 
 person of equal birth with herself, who had been beaten 
 down by the same fate which had elevated her. And in 
 conversation with him, it was easy to carry her mind back 
 to her early home, and for a little while forget her present 
 misery. And he, in turn, having been repulsed where he 
 
128 ^NONE. 
 
 had placed his highest hopes of happiness, and embittered 
 by the disappointment, was not at all loth to transfer, in all 
 innocence, his devotion to one who extended such kindly 
 condescension towards him. It therefore happened that 
 the two were naturally drawn much together, and, for a 
 time, without attracting invidious notice. Those were 
 days in which the association between master and slave 
 was often of an intimate character. To the lower class of 
 slaves, indeed, there could be no familiar approach. It was 
 sufficient for them that at times they could look upon 
 the faces of their owners from a distance. But above 
 these, were converging circles, each rising in rank and 
 responsibility, until there were those who stood at their 
 owners' right hands, more in the position of friends and 
 confidants than of menials. Of. these was Cleotos, whose 
 winning face and graceful mien, joined to his natural 
 abilities and his valued accomplishments, would have in- 
 sured him a higher position than that of most captives, 
 even if he had not been assisted by the partiality of his 
 mistress. 
 
 It was his duty to announce her guests, to trim the lamps 
 at which she read, to read to her when she felt indispc^d 
 to do so for herself, to indite her correspondence — and 
 generally to superintend all those little elegancies and 
 demands of social life which require grace or mental ability 
 in their execution. These offices naturally kept him near 
 her during much of each day — and when ^none and he 
 were alone, and no task was before him requiring immedi- 
 ate completion, it was but to be expected that a mingling 
 of curiosity and friendly interest should lead her to ques- 
 
-EN ONE. 129 
 
 tion him upon his past life, his home,- his associates, even 
 his thoughts. And often it as naturally happened that, 
 while he spoke, the music of his voice lulled her into forgetr 
 fulness of all but the past, and she would find herself un- 
 consciously relaxing from the somewhat frigid dignity 
 which she felt called upon to assume, until her features 
 must have glowed with some expression of her former 
 familiar kindness. For she would be suddenly startled 
 back into her forced propriety by a strange and troubled 
 look of puzzled thought flitting across his face — a look 
 which she could read and analyze better than he could ; for 
 it told her that, without any real suspicion of the truth, he 
 was wondering at the likeness of that beaming face which 
 bent over him to something which he had seen elsewhere 
 in the past. 
 
 There was one morning that he sat before her by a little 
 table where he had been writing a letter at her dictation. 
 The letter was folded and sealed, and then ensued one of 
 those vacant intervals when each, having no pressing task 
 at hand, remains for a few moments listlessly thinking what 
 shall be done next. At that instant Leta passed through 
 th^room — bowing low as she moved before her mistress, 
 and throwing out towards Cleotos from the corner of her 
 dark eye one of those aggravating looks in which friendly 
 interest in him and pleasure at his sight were mingled 
 with a certain cruel warning against any renewal of past 
 memories. Cleotos retorted with a similar careless greetr 
 ing, expressive of simple frieridli);iess, unconscious of any 
 warmer emotion. But he had not yet perfectly learned his 
 
 part ; for, as Leta passed out of the room, the quiver of his 
 
 6» 
 
130 ^ N N E . 
 
 lips showed how difficult had been the task of mastering 
 his forced smile even for that moment. 
 
 " Poor boy 1" said .^Enone, as she witnessed the effort. 
 " You have not yet learned not to love her." 
 
 "Alas, not yet, indeed," he responded. "But it seems 
 as though I knew the task better than last week, and 
 would know it still better a week hence. What can I 
 say ? It is not to be thought that I should lapse in a 
 moment into real indifference, even though I may find out 
 that she is unworthy of love. There cannot but be an 
 interval during which the heart will struggle against the 
 judgment, and lead to foolish longings after what has 
 passed." 
 
 " True, indeed," said ^none. 
 
 "And still, in my heart, I sometimes almost think that I 
 have never loved her," he continued in a reflective, dreamy 
 tone ; J' that I have been under a spell — have been made 
 the slave of certain outward fascinations, which have fet- 
 tered my judgment. Can it be that one will think he loves 
 and yet does not 1" 
 
 " It is indeed hard to answer, I suppose." 
 
 " It must be hard ; for wherein, after all, is the difference 
 between being and thinking to be ? But yet it seems as 
 though there were times, even long passed and before this 
 captivity, when, being in our own land, and with nothing 
 to disturb us or make us doubtful of the future, I looked 
 upon her with a strange kind of fear — wondering whether, 
 though I loved her with so strong a passion, it might not 
 rather be the passion of an unlasting, unsatisfying slavery of 
 thought, than of a calm, lifelong trustfulness. And now it 
 
^NONB. 131 
 
 seems to me that if I ever had this feeling — for I cannot 
 certainly tell whether I ever had or only now imagine it 
 — it seems to me as though it were an inner instinct 
 warning me against evil ; for day by day I see more 
 clearly that there has been some veil over my soul, hiding 
 it from a. clear perception of what was suitable for it." 
 
 " And you begin to dislike her "!"• inquired JEnone. 
 
 " Not so,'' he said. " Nor do I know whether I ought to 
 do so, if I could. I believe now that she does not, and 
 perhaps never has loved me ; but I must forgive her for all 
 that. She may have tried to do so, and for a time have 
 thought that she did, and the true blame may all the while 
 "" have rested with me alone. With her strong, unbending 
 temperament, fearless of correction, and jealous of all con- 
 trol, how, indeed, could she long cling to one of such a 
 tranquil and yielding nature as myself? That she loved 
 me not, proves not that she could love no one ; and though 
 she now seems so coldly heartless and so rashly heedless 
 of her fame, yet who knows what she might have been if 
 fettered by the love of a spirit more imperious than her 
 own ? Who can tell but that the great good that is within 
 her might then have conquered the evil, and her soul have 
 spurned its present headstrong course, and gloriously 
 aroused itself to its sole great duty of love and innocent 
 trustfulness ?" 
 
 " These, indeed, are very far from being words of dis- 
 like," said ^none ; " and they only prove that you still 
 love her, or you would not so readily excuse her." 
 
 "Neither have I denied that I love her yet," he said. 
 " But it is not with as blind an affection as before, Her 
 
132 ^NONE. 
 
 touch, her words, her smile — if given with real love — 
 would still please me as of old ; and yet I should feel that 
 there was something gone from me forever. Even if we 
 were restored to our own isle, with no enemy near or rival 
 to interrupt us, I could not but henceforth feel that destiny 
 had not meant her for me, so much would her stronger 
 nature be ill assorted with my own. And sometimes — " 
 
 " Well ?" 
 
 " Sometimes — now that this thraldom of my spirit is 
 passing off — there conies back to me the memory of another 
 face, a gentle, loving face — which, if it were possible ever 
 to see it again, I have too long forgotten, but which, if 
 I may not see it more, I should, for my own sake, have 
 forgotten long ago. But all this, honored mistress, can 
 be of no interest to you, and therefore it were foolish to 
 mention it." 
 
 " Nay, speak to me of it,'' murmured ^none ; and, 
 struggle as she would, the telltale blood began to flow up 
 into her face. " Is there any woman who does not care to 
 listen to a love story ?" she added, as though in excuse for 
 her curiosity. 
 
 " It is but a common love tale," he said, " and the more 
 so that nothing came of it. A few stolen interviews — a 
 few promises exchanged — and then a parting forever. 
 That is all." 
 
 " But where and when was this ?" 
 
 " Six years ago, at Ostia. For, though a Greek, I have 
 been in this land before now. I was a sailor then, and in 
 that port I met her. Met her and loved her, and promised 
 to return again, And for a while I meant to do so ; but on 
 
iE N O N E . 133 
 
 the passage back our ship was wrecked. I could not at 
 once find place upon another, and so took employment on 
 the shore — none the less, however, intending some day to 
 come back and claim her. What shall I say ? It is the 
 old story. The sea is wide, and I could interchange no 
 tidings with her. Ill success followed me, and I could not 
 return to Ostia. Then, little by little, as the months drifted 
 past, and I believed her lost to me, her image began to fade 
 from my memory. And then I saw Leta ; and under the 
 spell of that new charm, it seemed to me as though the 
 other one had lost all grasp upon my mind. Not altogether, 
 though, for even at the height of my later love, I have 
 always borne about me the last keepsake that- she had 
 given me." 
 
 " Let me see it — what is it like ?" said ^none, faintly ; 
 and in obedienpe to her command, and perhaps wondering 
 a little that she should take such interest in so simple a 
 story, Cleotos drew from beneath his tunic a thread with a 
 coin dangling at the end. 
 
 The tears struggled into JEnone's eyes as she gazed upon 
 the token. It was a poor little silver coin of the time of 
 the first Csesars — one of the few curiosities of her father's 
 family — and which she had given to her lover as the most 
 precious thing belonging to her. She remembered that 
 when, in that last stroll by the shore, she had hung it 
 about his neck with her own hands, and had made him 
 promise always to keep it, she had received from him a 
 similar token — a bright silver piece of Vespasian, and had 
 placed it near her heart, while murmuring similar vows. 
 He had kept his word, and she had not kept hers. For the 
 
134: ^NONE. 
 
 moment, she felt even guilty of bad faith, forgetting that 
 when she afterwards gave her more mature affection to 
 Sergius, it was only her duty to lay aside all that even 
 whispered of past promises. 
 
 " I could not bear to part with it," he said ; " for it still 
 spoke to me of her friendship, if not of her love. And a 
 superstitious thought came into my mind that I might some 
 day see her again, and that, though we should not meet as 
 lovers, yet she might, perhaps, be pleased to learn that I 
 had not entirely forgotten her. Would she not be bo, do 
 you think ?" 
 
 " She does — that is, it surely should so move her," said 
 ^none. 
 
 "So have I still worn it," he continued. "And somehow 
 each day brings back the recollection of her more faithfully 
 to me. Whether it is because this other absorbing love is 
 passing from my heart, and leaving to me greater freedom 
 of thought — or whether it is that Ostia is now so near to 
 me that I daily hear of it and see its costumes in the streets, 
 and thus my recollection of the place is kindled anew — or 
 whether it is — " 
 
 " Is what 1" said ^none, encouragingly. 
 
 " I know not how to dare say it," he stammered. " It is 
 a presumption, indeed, but I mean it not for such. I would 
 say that there is something in your own face, — a look 
 — a flash of thought — a glance of the eye — a something 
 I know not what, which i,'eminds me of her whom I knew 
 so many years ago. So that sometimes, were it not for 
 the difference of dress and all else around you, so much 
 at variance with what had been her state, I could almost 
 
^NONB. 135 
 
 forget the lapse of years, and imagine that — Pardon, most 
 noble mistress 1 I meant not to offend t" 
 
 For she had arisen ; and now, drawn to her full height, 
 was looking down upon liim with all the coldness of pa- 
 trician dignity that she could summon to her aid. He, too, 
 arose, and stood trembling opposite her. For a moment 
 they remained gazing upon each other ; he aghast at the 
 apparent consequences of his remark, reproaching himself 
 for having so inconsiderately raised her anger by daring to 
 compare, even in feature, a lowly country girl with her, 
 and despairingly asking himself what he should do to re- 
 store himself to her favor — she more and more wrapping 
 herself in a disguise of outward pride and haughty bearing, 
 lest by some chance his unsuspecting eyes might detect the 
 truth, and yet inwardly bleeding at the heart to think that 
 she could not reveal herself to him and promise him her 
 friendship, in full confidence that his love for her would not 
 return and bring new distress upon them. Then suddenly, 
 while each stood wondering what course tp take, a light 
 step was heard in the outer hall, and the poet Emilius 
 
136 ^ N N E 
 
 CHAPTER XI. 
 
 At the interruptioj, JEnone hastily reseated herself ; 
 while Cleotos, in obedience to a quick and significant mo- 
 tion of her finger, remained in the room, and resuming his 
 position at the table, prepared to continue his writing. The 
 poet Bmilius could not, of course, fail to notice this some- 
 what confused alteration of posture, but no suspicion of 
 having intruded upon an embarrassing scene crossed his 
 mind. He merely saw a proudly erect mistress and a cow- 
 ering slave ; and it was no unusual thing to interrupt a 
 Eoman lady in the act of giving even corporeal correction 
 to her attendant, nor did the stranger's entrance always 
 cause the punishment to cease. 
 
 " Has the caitifi" been insolent ?" he exclaimed, in gallant 
 tone, as he approached and seated himself before her. 
 " Has he dared to look too rebelliously upon so charming a 
 mistress ? If so, permit that I may chastise him for you. 
 It is not fit' that such fair hands should be obliged to wield 
 the rod." 
 
 " Nay, it is nothing," she said. " Nothing, indeed, need- 
 ing much reproof; and it is all past now. And wherefore 
 have we lately seen so little of you ?" 
 
 " Commands of court — the claims of Parnassus — these 
 alone have withheld me from heretofore giving to beauty 
 its proper meed of admiration and worship. To speak 
 
iENONE. - 137 
 
 more plainly, I have undertaken, by order of our em- 
 peror, the not ungrateful task of weaving a few poetical 
 sentiments to be recited at the opening of our new amphi- 
 theatre. And in order that the results of my labor might 
 not lessen my already acquired fame, I judged it most 
 prudent to seclude myself for the past few days from the 
 gaieties of the world, and give myself up to study and med- 
 itation. Though, after all, I could not deny, if closely 
 questioned, that my seclusion was but little productive of 
 results ; for, upon being tempted out one evening, sorely 
 against my judgment, to a feast at the house of the come- 
 dian Bassus, the true poetic inspiration overtook me at the 
 end of my third goblet, and, calling for papyrus, I there 
 accomplished, in one short hour, the greater portion of my 
 task." 
 
 " Then, I presume that your ode, unlike your other 
 works, will be of a cheerful and lively character, more 
 especially as it is written for such a festive occasion." 
 
 " Scarcely, perhaps, what the world would call altogether 
 lively, though here and there a thread of playful thought 
 may gleam upon the more sober texture of the basis. I 
 have rather judged it proper that, for the due celebration of 
 an event of such wondrous magnificence, I should give 
 utterance to deeper and more lasting sentiments, so as to 
 fit the minds of the spectators for a higher comprehension 
 of its true significance. But, if you wish, I will read aloud 
 a few of my thoughts ; and be assured that so far no eye 
 has seen the scroll, not even the august eye of the Emperor 
 Titus himself. 
 
 jSlnone inclined her head in assent, and he drew from the 
 
138 iE N N E . 
 
 breast of his tunic a small roll of parchment, carefully 
 wrapped in a covering of embroidered silk. 
 
 " I commence, of course, by an address to the emperor, 
 whom I call the most illustrious of all the Cassars, and liken 
 unto Jove. I then congratulate the spectators not only 
 upon living in his time, but also upon being there to- bask 
 in the effulgence of his majesty ; his countenance being the 
 sight most to be desired, and the games and combats being 
 merely accessory thereto. After which, I speak to the 
 gladiators and captives ; and prove to them how grateful 
 they should be to the gods for allowing them the privilege 
 of dying in such an august presence." 
 
 " Is it such a privilege, do you think ?" inquired jEnone. 
 
 " Perhaps not a privilege, but certainly no great hard- 
 ship. The trained gladiators surely cannot complain, for 
 they have voluntarily assumed the risks ; and as for the 
 captives, the most of them wilt some day die a violent death 
 of some kind or another, and, therefore, why not now, at- 
 tended by the decent observances of the games and the 
 applause of all the Roman people ? But to proceed. From 
 thence I speak of death — its pleasures and its recompenses ; 
 showing that, if there be a future life, the gods have done 
 wisely to withhold its exact nature from us, and that, what- 
 ever uncertainties may exist in other respects, nothing can 
 be more true than that those who now die in the arena will, 
 in another world, find their highest felicity in the privilege of 
 looking up from a distance at the loved emperor in whose 
 honor they perished, and beholding him enjoying, through 
 adoption, the society of the inhabitants of Olympus. I then 
 — but it is useless to detail all the argument. I will read 
 
^NONE. 139 
 
 the poem itself ; or rather, if you so permit, I will let this 
 scribe of yours read it for me. Perhaps, upon hearing it 
 from another's mouth, I may be led to make still further 
 corrections." 
 
 Handing the manuscript with all care to Cleotos, the 
 poet leaned back with eyes closed in delicious revery, now 
 and then arousing himself to correct some defective empha- 
 sis or unsatisfactory intonation, the tolerance of which, he 
 imagined, would mar the proper effect of the production ; or, 
 with persistent desire for praise, momentarily calling closer 
 attention to such passages as appeared to him deserving of 
 especial commendation — and generallj' omitting no oppor- 
 tunity of exacting that entire admiration to which he be- 
 lieved his genius entitled him. Apart from a somewhat 
 extravagant display of high-strained metaphor, the poem 
 had merit, being bold in scope, sonorous and well I'ounded 
 in tone, and here and there gracefully decked with original 
 and pleasing thoughts. Throughout the whole, however, 
 the singular propensity of the author for indulgence in mor- 
 bid and gloomy reflection found its usual development, 
 while every line was laden with lofty maxims of moral phi- 
 losophy, mingled with urgent incentives to the adoption of 
 a virtuous career ; — all, in themselves, both unexception- 
 able and praiseworthy, but, nevertheless, having a strange 
 sound in the ears of those who recognized them as the 
 utterances of one whose conversation was always flippant 
 and puerile, and whose daily life, in the enormity and unin- 
 terrupted persistency of its profligacy, rendered him the 
 acknowledged leader of all that was most disreputable and 
 contaminating in Roman society. 
 
140 iE N N E . 
 
 At lengtR, the reading having been fully completed, and 
 the listener's powers of flattery exhausted, the author care- 
 fully rewrapped his poem in its silken cover and carried it 
 away, to read it, in turn, to other noble matrons, with the 
 same transparent pretence of giving exclusive hearing 
 of it to each. For a few moments jEnone remained in 
 thoughtful silence, with her head bowed upon her hand ; 
 recalling the scattered fragments of the sonorous verses, 
 and wondering why it was that, when each line had seemed 
 so perfect in itself, and every thought so pure and noble in 
 its purport and conception, the whole should have left upon 
 her mind such an undefinable impress of dissatisfaction. 
 
 Cleotos, with unobtrusive scrutiny, seemed to read her 
 thoughts, for, at the first intimation of her perplexity, he 
 said : 
 
 " It is because the author of those verses has not sin- 
 cerely felt the full meaning of what he has there written. 
 For, with whatsoever display of ingenious and artistic skill 
 fair sounding maxims of morality may be expressed, yet, 
 if they come not from the heart, their utterance must seem 
 hollow and unreal. I do not know this author — how or 
 where he lives. It may be that in his daily life he is out- 
 wardly all that could be desired. But I know this — that he 
 has written about virtue and death, not because he loves 
 the one and fears not the other, but simply because, by 
 a display of well-toned periods, he may more surely hope 
 to gain the applause of the arena and the smiles of the 
 court.'' 
 
 "But why should not these sentiments, though called into 
 being by personal ambition alone, give equal pleasure as if 
 
^ N N E . 141 
 
 springing directly from the heart ? Are they not, after all, 
 as true ?" 
 
 " Nay, honored mistress, neitlier are they true. This is 
 again where they fail to please ; for in your soul there is an 
 instinct, though you may not know of it, which forbids 
 that such cold and unsatisfactory reasoning should bring 
 you comfort. He speaks of death : is it cheering to be 
 told that, though the gods have appointed death to every 
 person, they have given it, not as a veiled mercy, but 
 rather as a dreadful fate- — that there is no certainty about 
 our future condition, but that, if we are destined to live 
 again, it may be with the same evils encompassing us 
 which bind us now — and that the slave may then still be a 
 slave, destined forever to look up to and worship the high 
 and mighty ones who trampled on him here ? " 
 
 " That is, in truth, no comfort," said ^none. And she 
 bowed her head upon her hands, and sadly thought how 
 worthless to her would be the gift of eternal life, if her 
 present sorrows were to follow her. "But what can we 
 do? If it were possible to discover and believe in some 
 other fate, telling us that death, instead of being a dread- 
 ed pang, is a boon and relief to the sick and weary and 
 oppressed — " 
 
 "There is a book," said Cleotos — and for a moment he 
 hesitated, as though fearful of proceeding — " there is a 
 book which I -have read, and which tells us all this. It 
 says that death is not merely a fate, but is a source of 
 blessing ; since it leads to a world where the sufferings of 
 this life shall be recompensed with abundant joy, not to 
 the rich merely, but more especially to the poor and lowly." 
 
142 2i!N0NE. 
 
 "Where is that book?" cried ^none, with sudden 
 energy, as the wondrous depth and power of the sentiment 
 flashed upon her. "Where can I see and read it? He 
 who can talk like that, must surely have said still more ?" 
 
 " I have not that book," answered Cleotos. " I have 
 only this little copy of a small portion of it ;" and he hesi- 
 tatingly drew from beneath his tunic a single small leaf of 
 discolored parchment, closely filled with Greek characters. 
 "But being at Corinth, a year ago, I was permitted to see 
 the book itself, and to hear portions of it read. It was 
 written to a Christian church there, by one Paul, a leader 
 of that sect." 
 
 At the word " Christian" the first impulse of ^none was 
 to shrink back, not knowing but that even the presence of 
 one who had ever come into contact with any of that 
 despised sect might be injurious to her. For at once she 
 began to recall many of the tales which she had heard to its 
 discredit — its members hiding as outcasts in the caves and 
 dens of the earth — their repeated insults to the gods — their 
 proud and unaccountable worship of a malefactor — their 
 sacrifice of infants — and other exaggerations and calum- 
 nies, begotten in malice or ignorance, and thence widely 
 spread, making it not hard to believe that the only fate fit 
 for those to whom they related was a life of persecution 
 and a cruel death in the arena. ' 
 
 But only for a moment did this instinctive horror control 
 her. The single doctrine which she had just heard 
 advanced already began to bear its fruits. It seemed, 
 indeed, not unlikely that one who could write such truths, 
 and those, his disciples, who could so gratefully treasure 
 
^NONE. 143 
 
 them up, might not, after all, be wantonly wicked, but, at 
 the worst, might be merely victims of mistaken zeal. And 
 then, in turn, she thought of much that had been related to 
 her in their favor. During her life at Eome, indeed, she 
 had heard no mention of the Christian sect, unless ac- 
 companied with sneers or contempt. But she remembered 
 how that in Ostia, while she was yet a very young girl, she 
 had heard it sometimes whispered that the Christians were 
 kind and loving to all the world, and free from many sins 
 in which other men openly exulted, and that, through their 
 great love for their founder, they organized charities which 
 had never before been even thought of — and how that 
 once, when she had been very sick, a strange woman had 
 nursed her into health and refused all payment for it, alleg- 
 ing that her religion bade her give herself up to such tasks 
 — and how that she had once seen pass by, one who was 
 pointed out to her as a holy man among the sect-,— whose 
 name indeed she could not remember, but whose mild and 
 serene expression yet lived in her recollection. It was 
 hardly possible that one whose face was so radiant with 
 universal love and benevolence as to impress itself thus 
 lastingly upon the heart of a young child could have been 
 very wicked. Nor did it seem likely that Cleotos, whose 
 greatest weakness was that his life had been almost too 
 innocent and trusting, could speak well of a sect which 
 worthily ought to be persecuted. And then again she 
 thought upon that little book to the sect at Corinth, and 
 she bade Cleotos read a verse or two. He did so. At 
 another time she might have listened as she had listened to 
 the moral maxims of the poet Emilius — -judging well of it, 
 
144: iE N N B . 
 
 perhaps, for the beauty of its words, but, beyond that, 
 regarding it simply as some new and more original ex- 
 pression of long-accepted philosophy. But now, in her 
 trouble, she felt that there was something in it beyond all 
 known philosophy— a new development of faith, appealing 
 to the heart, and speaking comfort to all who were in 
 misery. It surely could not be that such words were the 
 emanations of an evil influence. 
 
 " Art thou — answer me, Cleotos — art thou one of the sect 
 of Christians ?" she inquired. 
 
 " How can I tell ?" he responded. " I have so often asked 
 that question of my heart, and yet have not been able to 
 understand what it has said to me. There are times when 
 I think that I must pray only to the gods of Olympus, and 
 that all I have heard or read about other gods must be 
 untrue. And again, when I read this little parchment of 
 mine, and remember other like things that have been told 
 to me, and see how they all. speak of death as a relief to 
 the sorrowing, and of another life in which the down-trod- 
 den and the captive shall be recompensed for what they 
 have suffered here, and know that I am one of those who 
 need such recompense — then I think that perhaps the only 
 true God is the God of the Christians. But I can learn so 
 little about it all, that I cannot, from my own judgment, 
 determine which must be right.'' 
 
 " Perhaps," thoughtfully, responded -.Enone, " it may be 
 that if you tell me all you know about it, I may be able to 
 assist your conclusions. Who knows what light I myself 
 need, or how much of good we may borrow from this 
 new religion ? It cannot be wrong to examine for one's 
 
^ N O N E . 14.5 
 
 self, and tlie gods will not be angry if we gain good 
 doctrine even from wrong sources, so long as it may make 
 lis better. To-morrow, therefore, let us begin." 
 
 Upon the morrow, therefore, and for many succeeding 
 days, the mistress and the slave spent stolen moments in 
 groping after the truth of that faith which makes the high 
 and the low equal. It was a blind search, for neither of 
 them had any definite comprehension of the history and 
 doctrine upon which the new religion had been founded. 
 Cleotos had enjoyed the best opportunities of acquainting 
 himself with it, having naturally, in his wanderings about 
 the East, and in his contact with the poor and enslaved of 
 many lands, heard much respecting the Christian churches 
 and their belief ; but having had no instructor, a great 
 portion of what he had thus received came to him in but 
 distorted and puzzling array. And ^none could not com- 
 prehend how, when the gods ruled RoiTie, and Eome had 
 scattered the Jews, one whom the Jews had had the power 
 to slay could be greater than all. But between them, for 
 their study, lay the leaf of parchment, closely covered with 
 writing, beside which the proudest and choicest philosophy 
 of Eome seemed mockery ; and though they could not un 
 derstand its full meaning, they knew that it spoke such 
 good words that, at the least, though it may have come 
 from erring men, it was no less worthy to have come from 
 a God. Whatever the real nature of the faith itself, here 
 was certainly a proof that among its attributes were 
 mercy and peace and brotherly love towards all. 
 
 What might have been the consequences if ^none had 
 been free to ptirsue the investigation as far as she wished 
 
 7 
 
146 ^NONE. 
 
 — to send for other books to aid her — to consult more 
 learned teachers, who, though perhaps hiding in secret 
 shelter, were yet attainable with proper search, cannot be 
 known. It is not improbable that, in the end, one more 
 might have been added to the list of those few Roman 
 women of high degree who even then gave up all their 
 rank and state in order to share the persecutions of the 
 Nazarenes. But it was otherwise ordered. Already indi- 
 cations, each slight in itself, but altogether of important 
 bearing, began to present themselves before her, warning 
 her that jealous eyes were watching her, and that, if she 
 would avoid the consequences of misconstruction, she Tnust 
 bring her feeble investigations to a close. 
 
 Until now, Leta, in her struggle to alienate the husband 
 from the wife, had been actuated simply by the exigencies 
 of her ambitious policy. Bearing in her heart no especial 
 hatred against her mistress, she would willingly have 
 spared her, had not the circumstances of the case seemed 
 to require the ruin of the one preliminary to the exaltation 
 of the other. But now, other incentives to her efforts were 
 added. First in her mind came jealousy of Cleotos ; for 
 though she had cast him off, and bade him stifle the yearn- 
 ings of his heart, and, by the cool exercise- of intellect and 
 craft alone, seek a better fortune for himself, it was hardly 
 natural that she should feel pleased to have him so soon 
 appear to take her at her word. She would have better 
 liked to see him display more prolonged sorrow for her loss. 
 Then came jealousy of ^none, who had apparently been 
 able to console him so early. And mingled with all this, 
 there began to press upon her a startling thought — one 
 
^NONE. 147 
 
 which she at first contemned as unlikely and absurd — but 
 which, though continually driven away, so obstinately 
 returned and commended itself to her attention with newer 
 plausibility, that at last she began to g'ive bitter and 
 anxious heed to it. What if this constant communication 
 between ^none and Cleotos were to result in a mutual 
 love ? It was no uncommon thing in those days for the 
 high-born lady to cast her eyes upon the slave. How 
 mortifying to herself, then, if, while she had been exerting 
 all her powers of fascination, taxing the utmost resources 
 of her intellect, and making of her whole existence one 
 labored study for the purpose of gaining an undue in- 
 fluence over the lord, Cleotos, without art or disguise or 
 apparent effort, or any advantage other than that aiforded 
 by his simple-hearted, trusting nature, should have quietly 
 won from the other side of the house a victory of almost 
 equal importance ! And further than this — what if the 
 lord were to perish in some brawl or by the hired assassin 
 of a rival house ; and ^none, released from her thraldom, 
 and despising conventional scruples — as again was not un- 
 common among the Roman ladies of that day — were to 
 exalt her favorite with legal honors, and thus make herself, 
 Leta, his slave ? This, to be sure, was an improbable 
 chance ; but a mind as active as her own did not disdain 
 to foresee and provide against all contingencies. 
 
 Then, in addition to every thing else, she became absorbed 
 in the one overwhelming and bitter reflection, that after all 
 her sacrifice and labor, the anticipated success might be 
 escaping her. It is true that, thanks to her efforts, the dis- 
 tance between " Sergius and JEnon& had widened, until it 
 
148 iE N O N E . 
 
 seemed that there could never be a perfect reunion ; but 
 * all this, if the state of partial neglect which had existed in 
 the beginning could be relied upon as an indication, was a 
 consequence which might easily, in time, have come of 
 itself. It is true that Sergius had yielded himself a willing 
 victim to the unlawful fascinations thrown around him ; but 
 yet Lata could not avoid seeing that he regarded her not 
 with the deep, earnest love which she had hoped to inspire, 
 but rather with the trifling carelessness of one giving him- 
 self up to the plaything of the hour. Not having, from the 
 very first, been chary of the sidelong glance and the win- 
 ning smile, and whatever grace of style or manner could 
 tempt him to pursuit, as an illusive appearance of success 
 seemed to beckon her onward, her heart at times grew des- 
 perate with the apprehension that all had been in vain. 
 For Sergius, content that the wife whom he neglected did 
 not disturb his repose with idle complaints, had no thought 
 of inflicting any deeper injury upon her, being well satis- 
 fied to have her remain and confer honor upon him by the 
 grace with which she maintained the dignity of his house. 
 And though well pleased to sun himself in Leta's smile, 
 there never came to him the thought that the slave could 
 be worthy of any exaltation, or that her highest ambition 
 could prompt her to desire more than a continuance of the 
 companionship with which he honored her. All this Leta 
 began to dimly see ; and there were times when, strive to 
 hide it from her heart as she would, it seemed as though he 
 might be even growing weary of her. 
 
 Thus tormented with doubt and jealousy and the con- 
 stantly increasing suspicion of baffled ambition, how was 
 
J5N0NE. 149 
 
 she to act? To accept her situation as a decree of fate, to 
 fawn upon the mistress like a patient slave, and, if the 
 lord were to tire of her in the end and give himself up to 
 other captivations, to submit unmurmuringly to the un- 
 avoidable necessity ? All this some might consent to do ; 
 but surely not one like herself, gifted with indomitable 
 will, and stung to desperation with the sense of great and 
 irreparable sacrifices. To her there could be but one 
 course. She must abandon her slow and cautious policy, 
 and seek the earliest opportunity to urge the matter to its 
 crisis. If, by sparing no watchfulness or ingenuity, or by 
 the exercise of bold and vigorous manoeuvring, she could 
 produce a quarrel and final separation between Sergius and 
 his wife, it might not be impossible for her to impress upon 
 him how much she was necessary to his happiness, and 
 thereby elevate herself into the vacant place. And if tin- 
 successful, at the least she would be but sharing a ruin 
 which |Would fall like an avalanche upon all alike. 
 
150 -ffiNONE. 
 
 CHAPTER XII. 
 
 A WEEK passed away. It was towards the end of a 
 bright and cloudless day, and Rome was gradually arousing 
 itself from its wonted siesta. The heat had at no time 
 been oppressive, for during the whole morning a cool breeze 
 had been gambolling across the Campagna from the sea ; 
 BO that even during the small hours of the day, the streets 
 had not been kept free from moving masses of life. Now 
 that the atmosphere became still further tempered, fresh 
 throngs poured forth from all the smaller passages and 
 alleys, until the greater arteries of the city swarmed with 
 eager, animated crowds. 
 
 More now than at any other time during the few weeks 
 that had just elapsed ; for upon the morrow was to com- 
 mence the dedication of the great amphitheatre of Titus, 
 and thousands of strangers had already poured into Rome 
 to witness the games, combats, and pageantry. From the 
 surrounding towns and villages — from the cities of the 
 south — from the confines of the Alps— even from the father- 
 most provinces, countless throngs had assembled to greet 
 an occasion second only to the grand triumphal entry with 
 -the spoils of Jerusalem. 
 
 From her window overlooking the streets, ^none sur- 
 veyed the panorama of life spread out before her. Upon 
 the battlements and towers of the Cresars' house, in full 
 
JEN ONE. ^ 161 
 
 sight over against the Palatine Hill, floated the imperial 
 banners, gently waving their folds in anticipation of the 
 splendors of the ensuing days ; and round about stood 
 crowds of strangers, wondering at the magnificence of the 
 palace architecture, and the vast compass of its walls, and 
 straining their eager gaze in the hope of being able to 
 catch a chance glimpse of the emperor himself. Further 
 down was the now completed Colosseum, around which 
 other thousands stood watching the pigmies who, in dark 
 clusters upon the top and along the edge, laboriously erected 
 the poles on which, in case of need, to stretch the protect- 
 ing velarium. This was the last outward preparation of 
 all ; and when that was done, every thing would be ready. 
 As one of these poles was being elevated, he who had hold 
 of the lower end of it lost his balance, and fell to the ground. 
 He was lifted up outside, dead — a shapeless, gory mass. 
 The crowd shuddered to see that helpless body falling from 
 such a height ;• but, at the next moment, all sympathy 
 passed away. The man wore a slave's dress, and was 
 recognized as belonging to the prastorian lieutenant 
 Patrocles. Upon the morrow, if he had lived, he was to 
 have appeared in the arena as a retiarius — he would then 
 most- likely have been conquered and slain — it was merely 
 a day sooner — a victim outside the walls instead of within 
 — he had clambered up to overlook the ground upon which 
 he was to have fought, and need not thus recklessly have 
 volunteered to aid the regular laborers — it was his fate — 
 Deus vult— what more could be said ? 
 
 ^none had not witnessed the fall, for she had not been 
 looking at palace or amphitheatre, both of which were too 
 
152 J3N0NB. 
 
 familiar with her to attract her attention. The one had 
 been for years the centrepiece of her view — -and the other 
 had grown up arch by arch and tier by tier so steadily 
 before her eyes that it seemed as though she xould almost 
 count its stones. Her gaze was now fixed upon the open 
 space beneath her window, where the Sacred and Triumphal 
 Ways joined — a space always at that hour gay with phan- 
 tasmagoria of shifting life, and at this time more than ever 
 provocative of curiosity and attention. Its bordering 
 palaces, already being hung with lively tapestries for the 
 morrow — its sparkling fountains — its corners decked with 
 arches — its pavement thronged with carriages and horse- 
 men — the crowds of slaves beginning in advance to take 
 their holiday, and affording pleasing contrasts as they 
 wound their way in slender currents through the openings 
 in the throng of their betters — the soldiery passing here 
 and there in large or small detachments — where else in the 
 world could such a varied scene of life and animation be 
 presented ? 
 
 First befoi'e her eyes passqd a number of the prsetorian 
 guard, with martial music, cutting the crowd asunder like 
 a wedge in their steady march towards the imperial palace. 
 Then came the chariot of the African proconsul, with 
 liveried footmen in front, and .Nubian slaves, in short 
 tunics and silver anklets, running beside the wheels. 
 After that a covered van, toilsomely dragged along by 
 tired horses and guarded by armed slaves in livery. The 
 imperial cipher' was emblazoned iipon the dusty canvas 
 screen thrown over the top, and from within, at intetvals, 
 came half-smothered growls and Voars. It was some wild 
 
^ N O K E . 153 
 
 beast arriving g,t this late hour from Nubia — a contribu- 
 tion from some provincial governor — a booty which had 
 cost pounds of gold, and perhaps the lives of many slaves, 
 and which was now destined to perform, in the sanded 
 arena, the combats of the jungle. The crowd, which had 
 let the African proconsul pass by with but a careless 
 glance of uninterested scrutiny — for dignitaries were too 
 common to excite much curiosity — pressed tumultuously 
 and with frantic eagerness around 'the heavy cage, exult- 
 ing in each half-stifled roar from within as though it were 
 a strain of sweet music — and thus followed the* van until 
 it arrived at the amphitheatre and passed out of sight 
 through one of the deep, low arches leading to the tiers 
 of grated stone cages, already well filled with the choicest 
 forest spoils of every tributary country. 
 
 Then came a black-bearded horseman. The trappings 
 of his steed were marked with the insignia of distinction ; 
 and footmen, with staves, ran before him to clear the way. 
 He sat with proud and haughty mien — as one who felt his 
 power and immunity, and yet with the expression of one 
 aware that all his rank and state could not protect him 
 from secret scorn and hate. Not many looked at him ; 
 for, in that thronging display of wealth and power, a 
 single gayly caparisoned horse and two liveried footmen 
 counted for almost nothing. One or two, however, of 
 those few who study men for their deeds alone, turned 
 and gazed scrutihizingly after him, for he had already 
 taken rank as one of the historians of the age. And as 
 he passed further along, a group of slaves, whose marked 
 
 features denoted Jewish descent, suffered expressions of 
 
 7* 
 
154 ^NONE. 
 
 aversion to break from them ; some turning their backs — 
 some gazing up with faces inflamed with the fiercest in- 
 tensity of hate — while one, less cautious, clenched his fist 
 and hurled after the rider a handful of dust and volleys of 
 heavy Hebrew curses. And so the apostate Josephus 
 passed on, and was gradually lost to view. 
 
 After him, slowly wending his way on foot through the 
 crowds, occasionally moving aside to allow others, more 
 urgent, the privilege of passing him, and constantly care- 
 ful not to excite the impatient wrath of those nearest to 
 him by a too lively pressure, yet all the time making sure 
 progress along his chosen path, came a single figure — a 
 white-bearded man, in plain, coarse tunic and well-worn 
 sandals. Few regarded him or even seemed to know that 
 he was there, except when in their hurry they found it 
 expedient to jostle him one side. But in his face gleamed 
 an intelligence far beyond what could be expected from 
 one in his humble attire ; and as ^none watched him, a 
 suspicion crossed her that the poor beggarly garb and 
 the quiet yielding mien were assumed to bafBe observa- 
 tion. Soon another person in similar dress but of fewer 
 years met him. The two joined hands and looked earnest- 
 ly into each other's eyes, and the older one appeared to 
 mutter a word or two. What was that word, at which the 
 younger bent his head with reverent gesture ? Was it a 
 command or a blessing ? Whatever it was, in a second it 
 was all said. The hands then unclasped — the bended 
 head raised with a startled glance around, as though with 
 a fear that even such a mere instant of humble bearing 
 might ha-ve betrayed something which should be kept 
 
-^ N N E . 155 
 
 secret ; and then the two men parted, and were swallowed 
 up in different sides of the concourse. 
 
 " I know that person," said Cleotos. He had been 
 gazing, for the past minute, out at the same window with 
 ^none ; and while attracted by the humble figure of that 
 old man, he had noticed that she had been equally obser- 
 vant. 
 
 "You know him, Cleotos ?" 
 
 " They call him Clemens, noble lady. He is a leader of 
 the Christian sect, and a person of influence among them. 
 It was at Corinth that I first saw him, and it was he who 
 let me copy the good words which are written upon my 
 little leaf of parchment. That was two years ago, but I 
 still recognize him. What does he here ? Why should he 
 thus peril his life in public ?" 
 
 " Give me that little scroll, Cleotos," said Mnone. " Let 
 me have it for my own." 
 
 Cleotos gazed at her for a moment in dismay. Was she 
 about to use her authority, and take away from him by 
 force those few lines, which, though he understood them so 
 little, had often served to cheer his heart with their prom- 
 ises of future rest and joy ? If so, he must submit ; but of 
 what avail, then, was all her previous kindness-? 
 
 "I ask it not as mistress, but as friend," she said, read- 
 ing his thoughts. " I ask it because, when you are away, 
 I shall need some memory of what have been happy days, 
 and because I may then often wish to apply those same 
 words of comfort to my own soul. You can make another 
 copy of the same, and, in your own land, I doubt not, can 
 find, witJi proper search, many more words of equal value." 
 
156 ^NONE. 
 
 " In my own land ?" Cleotos repeated, as in a dream. 
 But, though her meaning did not as yet flash upon him, he 
 knew that she spoke in kindness, and that she would not 
 ask any thing which he would not care to grant ; and he 
 drew the little stained parchment from beneath his tunic, 
 and handed it to her. 
 
 " Close, now, the window, Cleotos, and shut out from 
 sight that giddy whirl, for I have something to say to you." 
 
 He closed the window with its silken blind ; and then, in 
 obedience to her motion, glided away from before it. She 
 seated herself upon her lounge, and he upon his accustomed 
 stool in front of her. 
 
 "Think not, Cleotos,'' she said, after a moment's silence, 
 " that I first brought you hither to become a mere slave. 
 It was rather done in order that, when the proper time 
 came, I might set you free. Had she — Leta — but shown 
 herself worthy of you, the day might have come when I 
 could have managed to free her also, and send you both 
 home again together. But that cannot be. You must go 
 alone, Cleotos, but not, I hope, despairingly. Once again 
 in your own loved Samos, I know that, sooner or later, 
 there will be found some other one to m^ke you forget what 
 you have suffered here." 
 
 He could no longer doubt her meaning — she was about 
 to give him to liberty again. At the thought the blood 
 rushed to his heart, and he gasped for breath. For the 
 moment, as he gazed into her face and saw with what sis- 
 terly sympathy and compassion she looked upon him, the 
 impulse came into his mind to refuse the proffered freedom, 
 and ask only to remain and' serve her for life. But then 
 
JEN ONE. 157 
 
 came such floods of memories of his native place, which he 
 had never expected to see again — and its hills and streams 
 and well-remembered haunts seemed to approach with one 
 hound so near to him — and the faces of the • loved ones at 
 home began once again to look so tenderly into his own — 
 and the thought of throwing off even the light, silken 
 , chains which he had been wearing, and of standing up in 
 the sight of heaven a free man again, was so grateful to his 
 soul — what could he do but remain silent and overpowered 
 with conflicting emotions, and wait to hear more ? 
 
 " Think not to refuse youF liberty," she said, as she read 
 his doubts and perplexities. ," It must not be. No man has 
 the right to suffer degradation when he can avoid it. " And 
 though I might continue kind to you, who can -answer for 
 it that I should live to be kind to the end ? No, no ; from 
 this instant be a free man again. And, for the few moments 
 that remain to us, strive to think of me only as your equal 
 and your friend." 
 
 Still silent. What, indeed, could he say ? She knew 
 that he was grateful to her, and that was enough. But 
 why should he, of all slaves in Kome, find such kindly 
 treatment ? What had he ever done to deserve it ? And 
 — as often before — -that puzzled look of wondering in- 
 quiry came over his face while he gazed into her own. 
 She noticed it, but now made no attempt to disguise her- 
 self by any forced and unnatural assumption of haughty 
 pride. Were he at last to learn the truth, there could 
 surely no harm come of it. 
 
 ■' You must depart to-night,'' she said, " and before it 
 becomes known that I am sending you away ; lest, know- 
 
158 ^NONE. 
 
 ing it, others might claim authority to delay or prevent 
 you. Take this little purse. It contains a few gold 
 pieces, which you may need. And here is a written 
 pass which will lead you to Ostia. There you will go 
 to the tavern of the Three Cranes, and inquire for one 
 Pollio, who has a vessel ready to sail for Samos. In 
 that vessel your passage is paid. Show him this ring. 
 It will be a token for him to know you by. And keep 
 the ring ever afterwards, as a sign that you have a 
 friend left here, who will often think of you with pleas- 
 ure and interest." 
 
 "My mistress," he said, taking the ring and placing 
 it upon his finger, " what have I done that you should 
 be thus kind to me?" 
 
 " Nay ; no longer mistress, but friend," she said, with 
 a melancholy smile. "As such alone let us converse 
 during the hour that remains, for you must soon leave 
 me. It may be 'that when you arrive at Ostia, the ves- 
 sel will not be ready to set sail, nor yet for a day or 
 two, for its owner spoke to my messenger concerning 
 possible delays. If so, there will be time for you to look 
 around you, and think of the days when you wandered 
 along the shore, hand in hand with your chosen one. 
 You will, perhaps, go over those wanderings again — 
 along the sands leading past Druse's olive-grove to the 
 altar of Vesta, or to the — " 
 
 " How know you about Druse's grove ?" he cried with 
 a start ; and again that look of keen inquiry came into 
 his face. It was but a single step now — he stood upon 
 the very border of the truth. Should she repress him? 
 
^NONE. 159 
 
 It were hardly worth the while. So she let him gaze, 
 and, if any thing, softened her features yet more into 
 the old familiar expression. 
 
 "Past Druse's Grove, Cleotos — or to the smooth rock 
 which the waves washed at Cato's Point. Do you re- 
 member, Cleotos, how often we there sat, you holding 
 me with your arm while I slid down the sloping side, 
 the better to dip my naked feet into the water ?" 
 
 With a wild sob he seized her hand, and threw him- 
 self at her feet. Near to the truth as he had been stand- 
 ing, it seemed at the last to burst upon him with as much 
 force as though even a suspicion of it had been a thing 
 before impossible. And yet, at the same time, it ap- 
 peared to him as though he must have known it all the 
 while ; for how could he comprehend his past blindness ? 
 
 "Mnone," he cried, "send me not away 1 Let me stay 
 here to serve you forever !" 
 
 " Oh, speak not thus 1" she said, touching his lips 
 lightly with her finger. " Had you not been about to go 
 from here, you should never have recognized me. Forget, 
 now, all that has ever passed between us ; or rather, 
 strive to remember it only as a pleasant dream which 
 left us in its proper time. If the Pates separated us, it 
 was only because they were wiser than ourselves. Those 
 bright anticipations of our youthful love could never 
 Lave been fully realized ; and if persisted in, might have 
 led only to sorrow and despair. Let me not blush now 
 at having tevealed myself to you. Think, for the few min- 
 utes that remain to us, of 'friendship and of duty alone." 
 
 Eaising him up, she placed him beside her, and there 
 
160 iE N O N B . 
 
 they talked about the past and its pleasant recollections. 
 How the cross miller, who had never been known to do 
 a kindness to any one else, had sometimes let them ride 
 upon his horse — how they had once rowed together about 
 the bay, and he had taken her aboard his- ship — how she 
 had stolen away from home each pleasant evening to 
 meet him, and with what feeble excuses — and the like. 
 As the shades of afternoon deepened and shut out from 
 sight the gilded cornices and costly frescoes, and all else 
 that could remind them of present wealth, and as, each in- 
 stant, their thoughts buried themselves still further in the 
 memories of the past, it seemed to them, at last, as though 
 they were again wandering hand in hand upon the beach, 
 or sitting upon the wave-washed rock at Oato's Point. 
 
 With something wanting, however. No force of illusion 
 could bring back to either of them, in all its former com- 
 pleteness, that sense of mutual interest which had once ab- 
 sorbed them. Whatever dreams of the past might, for the 
 moment, blind their perceptions, there was still the ever- 
 present consciousness of now standing in another and far 
 different relation to each other. Though iEnone musingly 
 gazed upon his face and listened to his voice, until the real- 
 ities of the present seemed to shrink away, and the fan- 
 cies of other years stole softly back, and, with involuntary 
 action, her hand gently toyed with his curls and parted 
 them one side, as she had once been accustomed to do, it 
 was with no love for him that she did it now. He was 
 only her friend — her brother. He had been kind to her, and 
 perhaps, if necessary, she might even now consent to 
 die for him ; but, with all that, he was no longer the 
 
jENONE. 161 
 
 idol of her heart. Another had taken that place, and, how- 
 ever unworthy to hold it, could not now be dispossessed. 
 And though Cleotos, likewise, as he looked at her and 
 felt the gentle pressure of her hand upon his forehead, 
 seemed as though transported into the past, until he saw 
 no longer the matron in the full bloom of womanhood, but 
 only the young girl sparkling with the fresh hue and 
 sunshine of early youth, yet to him still clung the per- 
 ception that there was a barrier between them. What 
 though the form of the treacherous Leta may then have 
 faded from his memory as completely as though he had 
 never seen her? What though .^none's pleasant and 
 sympathetic tones may have again melted into his heart 
 as warmly as when first whispered at Ostia ? The smile 
 upon her face — the winning intonation of her voice — all 
 might seem the same ; but he knew that he must hide 
 within his own heart whatever he had thus felt anew, and 
 be content with the offered friendship alone, for that not 
 merely her duty but her altered inclination had separated 
 her from him forever. 
 
 At last the brief hour came to an end, and ^none arose. 
 The sun had set, and the darkness of night had already be- 
 gun to shroud the city. Here and there, from some of the 
 more wealthy neighborhoods, faint glimmers of lamp-light 
 shone out and marked the scenes of solitary study or of 
 festive gathering, but as yet these indications were few. 
 Already the chariots and horsemen who had thronged the 
 Appian Way had dispersed — a single rider here and there 
 occupying the place where so lately gay bands had can1> 
 ered, disputing each available empty space of pavement. 
 
162 JilNONB. 
 
 The walks were yet crowded with loiterers, but of a differ- 
 ent class. Patricians and fair ladies had departed, and 
 left the course to the lower orders of citizens and to slaves, 
 who now emerged from the arches and alleys, and, antici- 
 pative of the morrow's holiday, swarmed in dusky crowds 
 hither and thither in search of rude pastime. 
 
 " You must go now,'' said Mnpne, dropping the curtain 
 which she had Jifted for a moment in order to peer into the 
 street. " Stay not for any thing that belongs to you, for I 
 would not that you should be hindered or delayed. You 
 have been here as mine own property ; and yet, how do I 
 know that some pretence of others' right might not be 
 urged for your detention, if it were known that you were 
 departing ? Go, therefore, at once, Cleotos, and may the 
 gods be with you 1" 
 
 She held out her hand to him. He took it in his own, 
 and, for the moment, gazed inquiringly into her face. Was 
 this to be their only parting ? Nay, need there be a part- 
 ing at all ? ~A flush came into his countenance as he felt 
 one wild thought and desire burning into his soul. What 
 if he were to yield to the impulse which beset him, and 
 should throw himself at her feet, and ask her to forget the 
 years which had separated them, and the trials which had 
 beset them, and to give up all else, and depart with him ? 
 Alas 1 only, one result could follow such an appeal as that 1 
 In the vain attempt to gain her love, he would lose her 
 friendship also. She would part from him as an enemy 
 who had taken advantage of her sisterly affection to inflict 
 an insult upon her. He knew that this would surely be, the 
 consequence ; but yet, for the moment, he could scarce re-' 
 
^ N O N E . 163 
 
 sist the maddening impulse to thus forfeit all while striving 
 to attain impossibilities. 
 
 " Shall we never meet again ?" he said, at length, after 
 the hard struggle to command himself. 
 
 " It may be, in after-years ; who can tell ?" she ^ an- 
 swered. " And yet, let us rather look the truth in the face, 
 and not delude ourselves with false hopes. The world is 
 very wide, and the way from here to your home' is far, and 
 the fatalities of life are many. Dear Cleotos, let us rather 
 make up our minds that this parting is for ever ; unless it 
 may be that the gods will let us look upon each other's 
 faces again in some future state. But there may be times 
 when you can write to me, or send some message of good 
 tidings ; and then — " 
 
 " Talk not to me of the gods 1" he interrupted, in a storm 
 of passionate exclamation. " What have they ever done 
 for us,' that we should worship or pray to them? Why 
 look to them for blessings in a future state, when they have 
 done us such evil in the present life ? Here we were poor 
 and lowly together ; and have they not dragged us apart ? 
 And will they, then, in another life, be the more disposed to 
 let us see each other's faces — ^you one of the nobles of the 
 earth, and I one of its meanest plebeians ? Is it written in 
 the temples or by the priests and oracles, that when the 
 Csesars are throned in Olympus, their lowly subjects shall 
 -be permitted to approach them any nearer than when here ? 
 How, then, could we meet each other better hereafter than 
 now ? Away with all talk about the gods I I believe not 
 -in them 1 If we part now for this world, it is for eternity 
 as well I" 
 
164: ^NONE. 
 
 " Oh, say not that 1" she exclaimed. " And still pray to 
 the gods as of -old, for they may yet bring good out of all 
 that now seems to us so obscure. Eemember that to the 
 best of us, this world offers little but what is mingled with 
 unhappiness. Take not, therefore, away from yourself and 
 me a belief in something better to come." 
 
 " Take, then, with you, a belief in the God about whom I 
 learned in Greece, for He it is who tells of comfort hereafter 
 for the poor and oppressed, and He is the only one who 
 does so," Cleotos doggedly answered. 
 
 "It may be — it may be," she said. " Who can tell which 
 is right ? We have so often talked about it, and have not 
 yet found out. They may all, both yours and mine, be the 
 true gods — they may neither of them be. Ah, Cleotos, my 
 brother, let us not doubt. It is pleasanter and safer, too, 
 that we should believe, even if we extend our faith to a be- 
 lief in both. Choose, then, your own, as I will mine. I 
 must not abandon the gods in whose worship I have been 
 brought up ; but when I pray to them, I will first pray for 
 you. And you — if you adopt the God of the Christians, who 
 speaks so much better comfort to your soul— will always 
 pray to Him for me. And thereby, if either of us is wrong, 
 the sin may perhaps be pardoned, on account of the other, 
 who was right. And now, once more — and it may be for- 
 ever — dear Cleotos, farewell !" 
 
 " Farewell, iEnone, my sister 1" he said. And he raised 
 her hand and pressed it to his lips, and was about turning 
 sorrowfully away, when the door flew open, and Sergius 
 Vanno burst into the room. 
 
^NONE. 165 
 
 CHAPTER XIII. 
 
 With Sergius there was seldom any interval between 
 impulse and action. Now, without giving time for explana- 
 tion, he made one bound to where Cleotos stood ; and, 
 before the startled Greek had time to drop the slender 
 fingers which he had raised to his lips, the stroke of the 
 infuriated master's hand descended upon his head, and he 
 fell senseless at ^none's feet, with one arm resting upon 
 the lounge behind her. 
 
 " Is my honor of so little worth that a common slave 
 should be allowed to rob me of it?" Sergius exclaimed, 
 turning to Mnone in such a storm of passion that, for the 
 moment, it seemed as though the next blow would descend 
 upon her. 
 
 Strangely enough, though she had ever been used to 
 tremble at his slightest frown, and though now, in his 
 anger, there might even be actual danger to her life, she 
 felt, for the moment, no fear. Her sympathy for the bleed- 
 ing victim at her feet, of whose sad plight she had been 
 the innocent cause, and whose perils had probably as yet 
 only commenced — her consciousness that a crisis in her life 
 had come, demanding all her fortitude — her indignation 
 that upon such slight foundation she should thus be accused 
 of falsity and shame — all combined to create in her an un- 
 looked-for calmness. Added to this was the delusive im- 
 
166 ^NONE. 
 
 pression that, as nothing had occurred which could not be 
 explained, her lord's anger would not be likely to prolong 
 itself at the expense of his returning sense of justice. 
 What, indeed, could he have witnessed which she could not 
 account for with a single word ? It was true that within 
 the past hour she had innocently and dreamily bestowed 
 upon the Greek caresses which might easily have been mis- 
 understood ; and that all the while, the door having been 
 partly open, a person standing outside and concealed by 
 the obscure gloom of the antechamber, could have covertly 
 witnessed whatever had transpired within. But Mnone 
 knew that whatever might be her lord's other faults, he 
 was not capable of countenancing the self-imposed deg- 
 radation of espionage. Nor, even had it been otherwise, 
 could he have been able, if his jealousy was once aroused 
 by any passing incident, to control his impatient anger 
 sufficiently to await other developments. At the most, 
 therefore, he must merely, while passing, have chanced to 
 witness the gesture of mingled emotion and affection with 
 whibh Cleotos had bidden her farewell. Surely that was a 
 matter which would require but little explanation. 
 
 " Do you not hear me ?" cried Sergius, glaring with wild 
 passion from her to Cleotos and back again to her. " Was 
 it necessary that my honor should be placed in a slave's 
 keeping ? Was there no one of noble birth with whom you 
 could be false, but that you must bring this deeper degra- 
 dation upon my name ?" 
 
 ^none drew herself up with mingled scorn and indigna- 
 tion. His anger, which at another time would have crushed 
 her, now passed almost unheeded ; for the sense of injury 
 
^NONB. 167 
 
 resulting from his cruel taunt, and from his readiness, upon 
 such slight foundation, to believe her guilty, gave her 
 strength to combat him. The words of self-justification 
 and of reproach towards him were at her lips, ready to 
 break forth in unaccustomed force. In another moment 
 the torrent of her indignant protestations would have burst 
 upon him. Already his angry look began to quail before 
 the steadfast earnestness of her responsive gaze. But all 
 at once her tongue refused its utterance, her face turned 
 ghastly pale, and her knees seemed to sink beneath her. 
 
 For, upon glancing one side, she beheld the gaze of Leta 
 fixedly fastened upon her over Sergius' shoulder. In the 
 sparkle of those burning eyes and in the curve of those 
 half-parted lips, there appeared no longer any vestige of 
 the former pretended sympathy or affection. There was 
 now malice, scorn, and hatred — all those expressions which, 
 from time to time, had separately excited doubt and dread, 
 now combining themselves into one exulting glance of open 
 triumph, disdainful of further concealment, since at last 
 the long-sought purpose seemed attained. .iEnone felt, with 
 a sickening, heart-breaking pang, that she was now lost 
 indeed. It was no mystery, any longer, that the slave girl 
 must have listened at the open door, and have cunningly 
 contrived that her master should appear at such time as 
 seemed most opportune for her purposes. And how must 
 every unconscious actiort, every innocent saying have been 
 noted down in the tablets of that crafty mind ! What 
 explanation, indeed, could be given of those trivial ca- 
 resses now so surely magnified and distorted into evidences 
 of degrading criminality ? • 
 
168 ^NONE. 
 
 Faint at heart, ^none turned away — unable longer to 
 look upon that face so exultant with the consciousness of 
 a long-sought purpose achieved. Rather would she prefer 
 to encounter the angry gaze of her lord. Terrible to her 
 as was his look, she felt that, at the last, pity might be 
 found in him, if she could only succeed in making him 
 listen to and understand the whole story. But what mercy 
 or releasefrora jealous and vindictive persecution could she 
 hope to gain from the plotting Greek girl, who had no pity 
 in her heart, and who, even if she were so disposed, could 
 not, now that matters had progressed so far, dare to sur- 
 render the life-and-death struggle ? Alas ! neither in the 
 face of her lord could she now see any thing but settled, 
 unforgiving pitilessness ; for though^ for an instant, he had 
 quailed before her gaze, yet when she had, in turn, faltered 
 at the sight of Leta, he deemed it a new proof of guilt, 
 and his suspended reproaches broke forth with renewed 
 violence. 
 
 " Am I to have no answer ?" he cried, seizing her by the 
 arm. "Having lost all, are you now too poor-spirited to 
 confess ?" 
 
 " There is nothing for me to confess. Nor, if there had 
 been, would I deign to speak before that woman," she an- 
 swered with desperation, and pointing towards Leta. 
 " What does she here ? How, in her presence, can you 
 dare talk of sin — you who have so cruelly wronged me ? 
 And has all manliness left you, that you should ask me to 
 open my heart to you in the presence of a slave ; one, too, 
 who has pursued me for weeks with her treacherous hate, 
 and now stands gloating over the misery which she has 
 
^ N O N E . 169 
 
 brought upon me ? I tell you that I have said or done 
 nothing which I cannot justify ; but that neither will I 
 deign to explain aught to any but yourself alone." 
 
 " The same old excuse 1" retorted Sergius. " No harm 
 done — nothing which cannot be accounted for in all inno- 
 cence ; and yet, upon some poor pretence of wounded 
 pride, that easy explanation will not be vouchsafed ! And 
 all the while the damning proof and author of the guilt lies 
 before me 1" 
 
 With that he extended his foot, and touched the sense- 
 less body of Cleotos — striking it carelessly, and not too 
 gently. The effect of the speech and action was to arouse 
 still more actively the energetic impulses of ^none — but 
 not, alas 1 to that bold display of conscious innocence with 
 which, a moment before, she had threatened to sweep aside 
 his insinuations, and make good her justification. She was 
 now rather driven into a passion of reckless daring — be- 
 lieving that her fate was prejudged and forestalled— ^car- 
 ing but little what might happen to her — wishing only to 
 give way to her most open impulses, let the consequences 
 be what they might. Therefore, in yielding to that spirit 
 of defiance, she did the thing which of all others harmed 
 her most, since its immediate and natural result was to 
 give greater cogency to the suspicions against her. Stoop- 
 ing down and resting herself upon the lounge, she raised 
 the head of the still .senseless Cleotos upon her lap, and 
 began tenderly to wipe his lips, from a wound in which a 
 slight stream of blood had begun to ooze. 
 
 " He and I are innocent," she said. " I have treated 
 him as a brother, that is all. It is years ago that I met 
 
 8 
 
170 -51 NO N E . 
 
 him first, and then he was still more to me than now. He 
 is now poor and in misery, and I carmot abandon him. Had 
 he been in your place, and you in his, he would not thus, 
 without proof, have condemned you, and then have insulted 
 your lifeless body." 
 
 For a moment Sergius stood aghast. Excuse and plead- 
 ing he was prepared to hear. Recriminations would not 
 have surprised him, for he knew that his own course would 
 not bear investigation, and nothing, therefore, could be 
 more natural than that she should attempt to defend her- 
 self by becoming the assailant in turn. But that she should 
 thus defy him — ^before his eyes should bestow endearments 
 upon a slave, the partner of her apparent guilt, and with 
 whom she acknowledged having had an intimacy years 
 before, was too astounding for him at first to understand. 
 Then recovering himself, he cried aloud : 
 
 " Is this to be borne ? Ho, there, Drumo 1 Meros ! all of 
 you I Take this wretch and cast him into the prison ! See 
 that he does not escape, on your lives I He shall feed the 
 lions to-morrow 1 By the gods, he shall feed the lions ! 
 Bear him away 1 Let me not see him again till I see his 
 blood lapped up in the arena. Away with him, I say !" 
 
 As the first cry of Sergius rang through the halls, the 
 armor-bearer appeared at the door ; and before many more 
 seconds had elapsed, other slaves, armed and unarmed, 
 swarmed forth from different courts and passages, until 
 the antechamber was filled with them. None of them 
 knew what had happened, but they saw that, in some way, 
 Cleotos had incurred the anger of his master, and lay 
 stunned and bleeding before them. To obey was the work 
 
>ENONE. 171 
 
 of a moment. The giant Drumo, stooping down, wound 
 his arm around the body of Cleotos, hoisted him upon his 
 broad shoulder, and stalked out of the room. The other 
 slaves followed. Mnone, who, in the delirium of her de- 
 fiance, might have tried to resist, was overpowered by her 
 own attendants, who also had flocked in at Sergius' call, 
 and now gently forced her from the room. And in a 
 moment more, Sergius was left alone with Leta. 
 
 She, crouching in a dark corner of the room, awaited 
 her opportunity to say the words which she dared not say 
 while he was in this storm of wild passion ; he, thinking 
 himself entirely alone, stalked up and down like a caged 
 tiger, muttering curses upon himself, upon JEnone, upon 
 the slave, upon all who directly or indirectly had been 
 concerned in his supposed disgrace. Let it not be for- 
 gotten that, though at first he had acted hastily and upon 
 slight foundation of proof, and had cruelly wounded her 
 spirit by abhorrent insinuations, without giving time or 
 opportunity for her to explain herself, she had afterwards 
 given way to- an insane impulse, and had so conducted 
 herself as to fix the suspicion of guilt upon herself almost 
 ineffaceablj\ What further proof could he need ? While 
 with false lips, she had denied all, had she not, at the 
 same time, lavished tender caresses upon the vile slave ? 
 
 Then, too, what had he not himself done to add to the 
 sting of his disgrace ? " Convinced of her guilt, he should 
 have quietly put her away, and the truth would have 
 leaked out only little by little, so as to be stripped of 
 half its mortification. But he had called up his slaves 1 
 They had entered upon the scene, and would guess at 
 
172 iE N O N E . 
 
 every thing, if they did not know it already ! The 
 mouths of menials could not be stopped. To-morrow, all 
 Rome would know that the imperator Sergius, whose wife 
 had been the wonder of the whole city for her virtue and 
 constancy, had been deceived by her, and for a low-born 
 slave 1 Herein, for the moment, seemed to lie half the dis- 
 grace. Had it been a man of rank and celebrity like him- 
 self — but a slave 1 And how would he dare to look the 
 world in the face — he who had been proud of his wife's 
 unsullied reputation, even when he had most neglected her, 
 and who had so often boasted over his happy lot to those 
 who, having the name of being less fortunate, had com- 
 placently submitted themselves to bear with indifference 
 a disgrace which, at that age, seemed to be almost the 
 universal doom 1 
 
 Frantically revolving these matters, he raged up and 
 down the apartment for some moments, while Leta watched 
 him from her obscure corner. When would it be time for 
 her to advance and try her art of soothing ? Not yet ; for 
 while that paroxysm of rage lasted, he would be as likely 
 to strike her as to listen. Once he approached within a 
 few feet of her, and, as she believed herself observed, she 
 trembled and crouched behind a vase. He had not seen 
 her, but his eye fell upon the vase, and with one blow he 
 rolled it off its pedestal, and let it fall shattered upon the 
 marble floor. Was it simply because the costly toy stood 
 in his way ? Or was it that he remembered it had been a 
 favorite of JEnone ? One fragment of the vase, leaping up, 
 struck Leta upon the foot and wounded her, but she dared 
 not cry out. She rather crouched closer behind the empty 
 
^NONE. 173 
 
 pedestal, and drew a long breath of relief as, after a mo- 
 ment, he turned away. ' 
 
 At last the violence of his passion seemed to have ex- 
 pended itself, and he sank upon the lounge, and, burying 
 his face in his hands, abandoned himself to more composed 
 reflection. Now was the time for her to .approach. And 
 yet she w^ould not address herself directly to him, but 
 would rather let him, in some accidental manner, detect her 
 presence. Upon a small table stood a bronze lamp with a 
 little pitcher of olive-oil beside it. The wicks were already 
 in the sockets, and she had only to pour in the oil. This 
 she did noiselessly, as one who has no thought of any thing 
 beyond the discharge of an accustomed duty. Then she 
 lighted the wicks and stealthily looked up to see V7hether 
 "he had yet observed her. 
 
 The lamp somewhat brightened the obscurity of the 
 room, sending even a faint glimmer into the further corners, 
 but he took no notice of it. Perhaps he may have moved 
 his head a little towards the light, but that was all. Other- 
 wise there was no apparent change or interruption in his 
 deep, troubled thought. Then Leta moved the table with 
 the lamp upon it a few paces towards him, so that the 
 soft light could fall more directly upon his face. Still, no 
 change. Then she softly approached and bent over him. 
 
 What could he be thinking of? Could he be feeling 
 aught but regret that he had thrown away years of his life 
 upon one who had betrayed him so grossly at the end ? 
 Was he not telling himself how, upon the morrow, he 
 would put her away, with all ceremony, forever ? And 
 might he not be reflecting that, Mnone once gone, there 
 
174 jE N O N E . 
 
 would be a vacant place to be filled at his table ? Would 
 lie not wish that it should be occupied without delay, if 
 only to show the world how little his misfortune had 
 affected him ? And who more worthy to fill it than the one 
 whose fascinations over him had made it empty ? Was 
 not this, then, the time for her to attract his notice, before 
 other thoughts and interests could come between her and 
 him ? 
 
 Softly she touched him' upon the arm ; and, like an un- 
 chained lion, he sprang up and stared her in the face. 
 There was a terrible look upon his features, making her 
 recoil in dismay. Was that the affectionate gaze with 
 which she had expected to be greeted ? Was that the out- 
 ward indication of the pleasing resolves with which her 
 eager fancy had invested his mind ? 
 
 Never had she been more mistaken than in her concep- 
 tions of his thoughts. In them there was for herself not 
 one kindly impulse ; but for the wife whom he had deemed 
 so erring, there was much that was akin to Tegret, if not 
 to returning affection. The violence of his passion had 
 been so exhausting, that something like a reaction had 
 come. A new contradiction seemed developing itself in his 
 nature. This man, who a few minutes before had pre- 
 judged her guilty, because he had seen the lips of a grateful 
 slave pressed against her hand, now, after having seen her 
 so aroused and indifferent to reputation as to defend that 
 slave in her arms, and claim him for at least a friend and ' 
 brother, began to wonder whether she might not really be 
 innocent. She had confessed to nothing — she had asserted 
 her blamelessness — she had never been known to waver 
 
^ N O N E . 175 
 
 from the truth ; might she not have been able to explain 
 her actions ? With his regret for having, in such hasty 
 passion, so compromised her before the world that no ex- 
 planation could henceforth shield her from iavidious slan- 
 der, he now began to feel sorrow for having so roughly- 
 used her. Whether she was false or not — whether or not 
 he now loved her — was it any the less true that she had 
 once been constant and loved by him, and did the memories 
 of that time, not so very long ago, bring no answer- 
 ing emotion to his heart ? Who, after all, had ever so 
 worshipped him ? And must he now really lose her ? 
 Might it not be that he had been made the victim of some 
 conspiracy, aided by fortuitous circumstances ? 
 
 It was just at this point, when, in his thoughts, he was 
 stumbling near the truth, that the tpuch of Leta's hand 
 aroused him ; and in that instant her possible agency in 
 the matter flashed upon him like a new revelation. She 
 saw the tiger-like look which he fastened upon her, and 
 she recoiled, perceiving at once that she had chosen an 
 inopportune moment to speak to him. But it was now too 
 late to recede. 
 
 "Well?" he demanded. 
 
 " I have lighted the lamp," she faltered forth. " I 
 knew not that I should disturb you. Have you fm-ther 
 commands for me ?" 
 
 Still his fierce gaze continued fixed upon her ; but now 
 with a little more of the composure of searching in- 
 quiry. 
 
 " It is you who have brought all this destruction and 
 misery upon me," he said at length. "From one step 
 
176 ' iENONE. 
 
 unto another, even to this end, I recognize your work. 
 I was a weak fool not to have seen it before." 
 
 " Is it about my mistress that you speak ?" she re- 
 sponded. " Is it my fault that she has been untjrue ?" 
 
 " If she is false, what need to have told me of it ? 
 Was it that the knowledge of it would make me more 
 happy ? And did I give it into the hands of my own 
 slaves to watch over my honor ? Is it a part of your 
 duty that for weeks you should have played the spy 
 upon herself and me, so as to bring her secret faults to 
 light ? 
 
 She stood silent before him, not less amazed at his 
 lingering fondness for his wife than at his reproaches 
 against herself. 
 
 " How know I that she is guilty at all ?" he said, con- 
 tinuing the train of thought into which his doubts and 
 his better nature had led him. " I must feel all this for 
 certain. How do I know but what you have brought it 
 about by some cunning intrigue for your own purposes ? 
 Speak I" 
 
 For Leta to stop now was destruction. Though to go 
 on might bring no profit to her, yet her safety depended 
 upon closing forever the path of reconciliation towards 
 which his mind seemed to stray. And step by step, 
 shrouding as far as possible her own agency, she, spread 
 out before him that basis of fact upon which she so well 
 knew how to erect a false superstructure. She told him 
 how the intimacy of Mnovie and Cleotos had led her to 
 keep watch — how .^none had once cpnfessed having had 
 a lover in the days of her obscurity and poverty — ^how 
 
^NONE. 177 
 
 that this Greek was that same lover — and how improba- 
 ble it was that he could have been domiciled in that 
 house by chance, or for any other purpose than that of 
 being in a situation to renew former intimacies. ■ She 
 told how, after long suspicion, she had settled this iden- 
 tity- of the former lover with the slave — and how she 
 had seen them, in the twilight of that very day, stand- 
 ing near the window and addressing each other endear- 
 ingly by their own familiar names. As Sergius listened, 
 the evident truthfulness of the facts gradually impressed 
 themselves upon him ; and no longer doubting his dis- 
 grace, he closed his heart against all 'further hope and 
 charity and affection. The pleasant past no longer whis- 
 pered its memories to his heart — those were now stifled 
 and dead. 
 
 "And what reward for all this do you demand?" he 
 hissed forth, seizing Leta by the arm. " For of course 
 you have not thus dogged her steps day after day, with- 
 out expectation of recompense from me." 
 
 Did he mean this — that she was capable of asking a 
 reward ? Or was he cunningly trying her nature, to see 
 whether she might prove worthy of the great recompense 
 which she had promised herself ? It was almost too much 
 now to expect ; but her heart beat fast as she saw or 
 fancied she saw some strange significance in the gaze 
 which he fastened upon her. Babbling incoherently, she 
 told how she did not wish reward — ^how she had done it 
 all for love of him — how she would be content to serve 
 him for life, with no other recompense than his smile — 
 and the like. Still that gaze was fastened upon her with 
 
 8* 
 
178 iENONB. 
 
 penetrating power, more and more confusing her, and a^ain 
 she babbled forth the same old expressions of disinterest- 
 ed attachment. How it was that at last he understood 
 her secret thoughts and aspirations, she knew not. Cer- 
 tainly she had not spoken, or even seemed to hint about 
 them. But whether she betrayed herself by some glance 
 of the eye or tremor of the voice, or whether some in- 
 stinct had enabled him to read her, of a sudden he burst 
 into a wild hollow laugh of disdain, threw her from him, 
 and cried, with unutterable contempt : 
 
 " This, then, was the purpose of all 1 This is what 
 you dreamed of ! That you, a slave — an hour's plaything 
 — -could so mistake a word or two of transient love-mak- 
 ing as to fancy that you could ever be any thing beyond 
 what you are now ! Poor fool that thou art I — Oho, 
 Dru'mo.'' 
 
 The giant entered the room, and Leta again drew back 
 into the closest obscurity she could find, not knowing 
 what punishment her audacity was about to draw upon 
 her. But worse, perhaps, than any other punishment, was 
 the discovery that Sergius had already forgotten her ; or 
 rather, that he thought so little about her as to be able 
 to dismiss her and her pretensions with a single con- 
 temptuous rebuke. He had called his armor-bearer for 
 another purpose than to speak of her. A new phase had 
 passed over his burdened and excited mind. He could 
 not endure that solitude, with ever-present disagreeable 
 reflection. And since his disgrace must sooner or later 
 be known, he would brave it out by being himself the 
 first to publish it. 
 
jEnone. 179 
 
 " Is it not to-morrow that the games begin ?" 
 
 " Yes, master," responded the armor-bearer. 
 
 " And does it not — ^it seems to me that I promised to 
 my friends a banquet upon the previous night. If I did 
 not, I meant to have done so. Go, therefore, and bid 
 them at once come hither I Tell the poet Emilius — 
 and Bassus — and the rest. You know all whom I would 
 . have. Let them understand that I hold revel here, and 
 that not one must dare to stay away ! Tell my cooks 
 to prepare a feast for the gods ! Go I Dispatch !" 
 
 The giant grinned his knowledge of all that his mas- 
 ter's tastes would require, and left the room to prepare 
 for his errand. And in a moment more Sergius also de- 
 parted, without another thought of the Greek girl, who 
 stood shrinking from his notice in the shadow of the 
 furthest corner. 
 
180 - jE N O N E . 
 
 CHAPTER XIV. 
 
 In an hour from that time the banqueting hall of the 
 palace was prepared for -its guests. Silken couches had 
 been drawn up around the table. Upon it glittered a rich 
 array of gold and silver. Between the dishes stood flasks 
 of rare wines. Upon the buffet near by were other wines 
 cooling in Apennine snow. Tall candelabras in worked 
 and twisted bronze stood at the ends and sides of the table, 
 and stretched overhead their arms hung with lamps. Fpom 
 the walls were suspended other lamps, lighting up the 
 tapestries and frescoes. At one end of the hall, richly 
 scented spices burned upon a tripod. With a readiness 
 and celerity for which the Vanno palace was famous, a 
 feast fit for the emperor had been improvised in "a few 
 minutes, and nothing was now wanting except the guests. 
 
 These now began to drop in one by one. The poet 
 Emilius — the comedian Bassus — the proconsul Sardesus — 
 others of lesser note ; but not one who had not a claim to 
 be present, by reason of intimate acquaintance or else 
 some peculiarly valuable trait of conviviality. In collect- 
 ing these, the armor-bearer had made no mistake ; and 
 knowing his master's tastes and intimates, he had made 
 up the roll of guests as discreetly as though their names 
 had been given him. One he had met in the street — 
 others he had found at their homes. None to whom he 
 
^ N N E . . 181 
 
 gave the invitation was backward in accepting it upon 
 the spot, for there were few places in Eome where ^qual 
 festal gratification could be obtained. To have been called 
 to the house of Sergius Vanno and not to have gone there, 
 was to have lost a day to be forever regretted. None, 
 therefore, who had been spoken to, among that club of 
 congenial spirits, was absent. Of those who did not* come, 
 one was sick and two were at their country villas. These, 
 however, were lesser lights, valuable by themselves, per- 
 haps, but of no account in comparison with others who 
 had come ; and therefore their absence was scarcely no- 
 ticed. 
 
 Sergius stood at the door receiving his guests as each 
 arrived. He had arrayed himself in his most festive cos- 
 tume, and had evidently resolved that whatever might 
 happen on the morrow, that night at least should be passed 
 in forgetfulness and , unbridled enjoyment. Even now his 
 face was flushed with the wine he had taken in anticipa- 
 - tion, in the hope of giving an artificial elation to his 
 spirits. But it seemed as though for that time the wine 
 had lost its accustomed charm. Although at each greeting 
 he strove to wreathe his face in smiles, yet it was but a 
 feeble mask, and could not hide the more natural appear- 
 ance of care and* gloom which rested upon his features ; 
 and while his voice seemed to retain its old ring of joyous 
 welcome, there was an undertone of sad discordance. As 
 the guests entered and exchanged greetings with their 
 host, each, after the first moment, looked askant at him, 
 with the dim perception that, in some way, he was not as 
 he was wont to be ; and so, in a little while, they sank, 
 
182 Ji! N N E . 
 
 one by one, into a troubled and apprehensive silence. He, 
 too, upon his part, looked furtively at them, wondering 
 ■whether they had yet heard the thing that had befallen 
 him. It was but a short time ago, indeed, and yet in how 
 few minutes might the unrestrained gossip of a slave have 
 spread the ill tidings 1 For the moment, Sergius recoiled 
 from the difficult task of entertainment which he had taken 
 upon himself. Why, indeed, had he called these men 
 around him ? How could he sit and pledge them in deep 
 draughts, and all the time suspect that each one knew his 
 secret, and was laughing about it in his sleeve ? And if 
 they knew it not, so much the worse, for then he must tell 
 the tale himself. Was it not partly for this purpose that 
 he had assembled them ? Par better to speak of it him- 
 self — to let them see how little he regarded the misfortune 
 and the scandal — to treat it as a brave jest — ^to give his 
 own version of it — than to have the matter leak out iu the 
 ordinary way, with all conceivable distortions and exag- 
 gerations. But how, in fact, could he tell it ? Was there 
 one among them who would not, while openly commiserat- 
 ing him, laugh at him in thfe heart ? Did there not now 
 sit before him the lieutenant Plautus, who, only a month 
 before, had met with a like disgrace, and about whom he 
 had composed derisive verses ? Would not the lieutenant 
 Plautus now rejoice to make retaliatory odes ? Would it 
 not be better, then, after all, to forbear any mention of the 
 matter, and, letting its announcement take the usual chance 
 course, to devote this night, at least, 'to unbroken festiv- 
 ity ? But what if they already knew it ? 
 
 Thus wandering in his mind from one debate to another, 
 
and ever, in a moment, coming back to his original sus- 
 picion, he sat, essaying complimentary speeches and con- 
 vivial jests, and moodily gazing from face to face, in a vain 
 attempt to read their secret thoughts. He was wrong in 
 his suspicions. Not one of them knew the reason of the 
 burden upon his mind. All, however,, perceived that some- 
 thing had occurred to disturb him, and his moody spirit 
 shed its influence around, until the conversation once again 
 flagged, and there was not one of the party who did not 
 wish himself elsewhere. The costliest viands and wines 
 spread out before them were ineffective to produce that 
 festive gaiety upon which they had calculated. 
 
 "By Parnassus !" exclaimed the poet Emilius, at length, 
 pushing aside his plate of turbot, and draining his goblet. 
 " Are we to recline here, hour after hour, winking and 
 blinking at each other like owls over their mice ? Was 
 it merely to eat and drink that we have assembled ? 
 Hearken 1 I will read to you that which will raise your 
 spirits, to a certainty. To-morrow the games and combats 
 commence in the arena of the new amphitheatre. Well ; 
 and is it known to you that I am appointed to read a dedi- 
 catory ode before the emperor and in honor of that occa- 
 . sion ? I will give you a pleasure, now. I will forestall 
 your joy, and let you hear what I have written. And be 
 assured that this is no small compliment to your intelli- 
 gence, since no eye hath yet looked upon a single verse 
 thereof" 
 
 With that the poet dragged from his breast hie silken 
 bundle, and carefully began to unwind the covering. 
 
 " You will observe," he said, as he brought the precious 
 
184 iENONE. 
 
 parchment to light, and smoothed it out upon the table 
 before him, "you will observe that I commence with an 
 invocation to the emperor, whom I call the most illustrious 
 of all the Caesars, and liken to Jove. I then congratulate 
 the spectators, not only upon the joy of living in his time, 
 but also upon being there to baskinl,he eiFulgence of — " 
 
 " A truce to such mummery !" cried Sergius, suddenly 
 arousing from his spiritual stupor and bursting into a 
 shrill laugh. " Do we care to listen to your miserable 
 dactyls ? Is it not a standing jest through Kome that, 
 for the past month, you have daily read your verses to 
 one person after another, with the same wretched pre- 
 tence of exclusive favoritism ? And do we not know that 
 no warrant has ever been given to you to recite a single 
 line before the emperor, either in or out of the arena ? We 
 are here to revel, not to listen to your stale aphorisms upon 
 death and immortality. Ho, there, more wine ! Take off 
 these viands, which already pall upon us ! Bring wine — 
 more wine 1" 
 
 The guests were not slow to respond to the altered mood 
 of their host ; for it was merely the reflection of his sullen 
 gravity that had eclipsed their own vivacity. The instant, 
 therefore, that he led the way, the hall began to resound 
 with jest and laughter. The poet, with some humiliation, 
 which he endeavored to conceal beneath an affectation of 
 wounded dignity, commenced rolling up his manuscript, not 
 before a splash of wine from a carelessly filled flagon had 
 soiled the fair-written characters. More flasks were placed 
 upon the table by ready and obedient hands — and from 
 
^ N O N B . 185 
 
 that moment the real entertainment of the evening com- 
 menced. 
 
 Faster than any of his guests, as though care could be 
 the better drowned by frequent libations, Sergius now filled 
 and refilled his flagon ; and though the repeated draughts 
 may not have brought forgetfulness, yet, what, was the 
 nearest thing, they produced reckless indifference. No 
 longer should the cloud which he had thus suddenly swept 
 away from his brow be suffered to remain. Was he not 
 master in his own house ? If woman deceives, was that a 
 reason why man should mourn and grow gray with 
 melancholy ? What though a random thought might at 
 times intrude, of one who, in the next room, with her head 
 against the wall, lay in a half stupor, listening to the ring 
 of goblets and the loud laugh and jest? Had she not 
 brought it all upon herself ? He would fill up again, and 
 think no more about it ! And still, obedient to his direct- 
 ing tone, the guests followed him with more and more 
 unbridled license, until the hall rang with merriment as it 
 had never rung before. 
 
 Then, of course, came the throwing of dipe, which, at 
 that time, were as essential a concomitant of a-roystering 
 party as, in later centuries, cards became. Nor -were these 
 the least attraction of the feasts of Sergius ; for though 
 the excellence of his viands and wines was proverbial, the 
 ease with which he could be despoiled at the gambling 
 table was not less so. Already he was known to have 
 seriously crippled his heritage by continued reverses, spring- 
 ing from united ill luck and want of skill ; but it was as 
 well understood that much still remained. And then, as 
 
186 iB N O N E . 
 
 now, the morality of gambling was of a most questionable 
 character — invited guests not thinking it discreditable to 
 unite in any combinations for the purpose of better pil- 
 laging their host. This seemed now the general purpose ; 
 for, leaving each other in comparative freedom from attack, 
 they came forward one by one and pitted their purses, great 
 and small, against Sergius, who sat pouring down wine 
 and shaking the dicebox, while he called each by name, and 
 contended against him. The usual result followed ; for, 
 whether owing to secret signs among the players, or to 
 superior skill, the current of gold flowed but one way, from 
 the host to his guests. For a while he bore the continued 
 ill luck with undiminished gaiety, deeming that in meetings 
 their united prowess he was doing a brave thing, and that, 
 whatever befell him, he should remember that in character 
 of host he must consent to suifer. But at length he began 
 to realize that his losses had been carried far enough. He 
 had never suffered so severely in any one evening before. 
 Even his duty to them as their host did not demand that he 
 should completely ruin himself, and he began to suspect 
 that he had half done so already. With a hoarse laugh he 
 pushed the dice away, and arose. 
 
 " Enough — quite enough for one night," he exclaimed. 
 "I have no more gold ; nor, if I had, could I dare to con- 
 tinue, with this ill run against me. Perhaps after another 
 campaign I may meet you again, and take my revenge ; 
 which, if the Fates are just, must one day or another be 
 allotted me. But not now." 
 
 He thought that he was firm in his refusal, but his guests 
 had not yet done with him. It needed but gentle violence 
 
^NONE. 187 
 
 to push him back again upon his couch, and to replace 
 the dicebox in his hand. 
 
 "Art weary, or afraid to continue?" said the praetorian 
 captain. " Well, let there be one more main between us, 
 and then we will end it all. Listen ! I have won this night 
 two hundred sestertia. What is the worth of that quarry 
 of yours to the south of the Porta Triumphalis ?" 
 
 " Three hundred sestertia — not less,'' responded Sergius. 
 
 " Nay, as much as that ?" rejoined the captain, carelessly 
 throwing down his own dice. " Then it is useless to pro- 
 pose what I was about to. I had thought that as the 
 quarry had been well worked already, and was now over- 
 run with fugitive slaves and Nazarenes, and the Jike, to 
 ferret out whom would require half a legion, I could offer 
 to put the two hundred sestertia against it, so that you 
 might chance to win them back. But it is of little con- 
 sequence." 
 
 Sergius sat for the moment nervously drumming upon 
 the table. He knew that the other was purposely dispar- 
 aging the property and trying to tempt him into an unequal 
 stake ; and yet he suffered himself to be tempted. The 
 luck nright this time be with him. It were worth while to 
 try it, at least. If he lost, it would be but one more buffet 
 of fortune. And if he won, how easily would those two 
 hundred sestertia have been- regained, and what a triumph 
 over the one who had enticed him I And therefore they 
 threw — five times apiece ; and after a moment of breath- 
 less excitement, the play was decided in favor of the 
 captain. 
 
 " The quarry is mine; therefore," he said, endeavoring to 
 
188 iE N N B . 
 
 assume a nonchalant air of indifference. " Would you 
 still win it back, Sergius 1 And the sestertia also ? Well, 
 there is that vineyard of yours on the slope of Tivoli, 
 which — " 
 
 "Stay!" exclaimed the proconsul Sardesus, who, -of aU 
 the party, had not as yet touched the dicebox. " Let this 
 be enough. Will you plunder him entirely ? Have you no 
 regard for my rights over him ? Do you not know that to- 
 morrow, at the amphitheatre, Sergius and I are to match 
 gladiators against each other for a heavy wager, and that 
 I expect to win ? How, then, will I get this money, if you 
 now strip him of all that he owns ?" 
 
 Probably the proconsul felt no fear about collecting what 
 he might win, and spoke jestingly, and with the sole inten- 
 tion of putting a stop^to a system of pillage which seemed 
 to him already too flagrant and unscrupulous. But his 
 words were too plain spoken not to give offence at any 
 time, more particularly now that all present were heated 
 with excitement ; and the usual consequence of disin- 
 terested interference ensued. The other guests, in no meas- 
 ured language, be^an to mutter their displeasure at the 
 insinuations against themselves ; while the host, for whose 
 benefit the interruption had been intended, resented it most 
 strongly of all. He needed no counsel, but was well able 
 to take care of himself, he intimated. And he remembered 
 that he had entered into some sort of a wager about 
 the result of a gladiatorial combat, and he had sup- 
 posed that no one would have doubted his ability to pay 
 all that he might lose therein. It was proper, at least, to 
 wait until there had been some precedent of the kind 
 
iE N O N E . 189 
 
 proved against him. No one, so far, had found him want- 
 ing. And the like. 
 
 "And yet," he continued, as after a moment of reflection 
 he began to realize the value of the wager, and how incon- 
 venient it would be to lose, and that he had not yet suc- 
 ceeded in making any preparation for the contest, " when I 
 tell you that 1 have not yet found a gladiator to my mind, 
 you will not force this match upon me to-morrow? You 
 will forbear that advantage, and will consent to postpone 
 our trial to another time ?" 
 
 The proconsul shrugged his shoulders. 
 
 " Was it in the bond," he said, " that one should await 
 the convenience of the other ? Has there not been time 
 enough for each to procure his man ? This wager was 
 made between us months ago, Sergius — ^before even you 
 went into the East." 
 
 " And it was while I was there," exctaimed Sergius 
 eagerly, "that I found my man — a Ehodian, with the fore- 
 head, neck, and sinews of a bull. He could have hugged a 
 biill to death, almost. Having him, I felt safe, for whom 
 could you obtain to stand up against him ? But in an evil 
 hour, not over a month ago, this play-actor here — this Bas- 
 aus — by a stupid trick gained him from me. What, then, 
 have I been able to do for myself since ? I have sought far 
 and near to replace him, but without success ; and had made 
 up my mind, if you would not postpone the trial, to pay up 
 the forfeit for not appearing, and think no more about it. 
 But, by the gods 1 I will, even at this late hour, make one 
 more attempt. Harkee, Bassus I Whenever I have asked 
 you about this Ehodian, you have said that you have sold 
 
190 ^NONB. . 
 
 him ; and, for some low reason, you have refused to tell 
 who owns him now. Tell me, now, to whom you sold him, 
 so that I can purchase him at once h Tell me, I say ; or 
 there will be blood between us !" 
 
 " What can he say," interrupted the proconsul, " but that 
 he sold his Ehodian to me, the day thereafter ? You do 
 well to praise him, Sergius. Never have I seen such a 
 creature of brawn and muscle. And with the training; I 
 have given him, who, indeed, could overcome him ? You 
 will see him to-morrow, in the arena. You will see how he 
 will crush in the ribs of your gladiator, like an egg-shell." 
 
 Sergius gave vent to a groan of mingled rage and 
 despair. 
 
 " And you will not postpone this trial ?" he said. 
 " Will you, then, take up with an offer to play off that Eho- 
 dian against ten of my slaves ? No ? Against twenty, 
 then ? What else will tempt you ? Ah, you may think 
 that I have but little to pffer to play against you, but it is 
 not so. I have no gold left, and my last quarry is gone. 
 But I have my vineyards and slaves in plenty. What say 
 you, therefore ?" 
 
 " Tush ! Beseech him not I" interrupted Emilius, to 
 whom the mention of vineyards and slaves gave intimation 
 of further .spoils. " Do you not see that he shakes his 
 head ? And do you not know his obstinacy ? You could 
 not move him now were you to pay him in full the amount 
 of the forfeit. It is not the gold that he longer cares for, 
 but the chance to distinguish himself by the exhibition of 
 the slave of greatest strength and prowess. So let that 
 matter go for settled. Eather strive, in some other man- 
 
iENONB. 191 
 
 ner, to win the money with which to pay your forfeit. 
 This, with good luck, you may do — a little here and a little 
 there — who knows ? Perhaps even I can help you. Have 
 I not won fifty sestertia from you ? I will now wager it 
 back against a slave." 
 
 " Against any slave ?" 
 
 " By Bacchus, no ! I have enough of ordinary captives 
 to suit me, a-n"d care but little for any accession to the rab- 
 ble of them. But you have one whom I covet — a Greek of 
 fair appearance and pleasing manners — ^fit not for the camp 
 or the quarries, but of some value as a page or cupbearer. 
 It was but lately that I saw him, writing at your wife's 
 dictation, and I wished for him at once. Shall we play for 
 him ?» 
 
 " No I a thousand times, no !" exclaimed Sergius, strik- 
 ing the table so heavily with his open hand that the dice 
 danced and the flagons shook. "Were you to offer me 
 thrice his value — ^to pay off my forfeit to Sardesus to the 
 last sestertium — ^to gain me back my quarry and my vine- 
 yards — all that I have lost — I would not giVe up that 
 slave. My purpose is sweeter to me than all the gold you 
 could offer, and I will not be cheated out of it. That slave 
 dies to-morrow in the amphitheatre — between the lion's 
 jaws 1" 
 
 " Dies ? In the arena ?" was the astonished exclamation. 
 
 " Is there aught wonderful in that ?" Sergius fiercely 
 cried. " Have you never before known such a thing as a 
 master giving up his slave for the public amusement ? 
 And let no man ask me why I do it. It may be that I wish 
 revenge, hating him too much to let him live. It may be 
 
192 -S! N O N E . 
 
 that I seek to be a benefactor like otbers, and furnish 
 entertainment to the populace at my own expense. It fs 
 sufficient that I choose it. Will not any other slave an- 
 swer, Emilius ?" 
 
 " Nay, no other will do,'' remarked the poet, throwing 
 himself carelessly back, with the air of one dismissing a 
 fruitless subject from his mind. " This was the only one 
 whom I coveted. For any other I would not care to 
 shake the dicebox three times, though I might feel sure to 
 win." 
 
 " Will you offer the same to me, Sergius ?" eagerly cried 
 the comedian. " I also have won heavily from you. Will 
 you play any other slave than this page against fifty sester- 
 tia ?" 
 
 For his only answer, Sergius seized the dice, and began 
 impatiently to rattle them. The eyes of Bassus sparkled 
 with anticipated victory. 
 
 "You hear ?" he cried, to all around him. "Against my 
 fifty sestertia he will stake any of his slaves excepting this 
 Greek page ?" 
 
 " They all hear the terms," retorted Sergius. " Now 
 throw !" 
 
 " Whether male or female ?" continued Bassus, still look- 
 ing around to see that all understood. 
 
 " Are they fools ? Can they not hear ? Will you throw 
 or not ?" shouted Sergius. 
 
 In a wild delirium of excitement, the comedian began the 
 game, and in a few minutes it was concluded. Then he 
 leaped from his couch, crying out : 
 
 " I have won 1 And there can be no dispute now ! You 
 
^NONE. 193 
 
 all heard that he gave the choice of his slaves, whether 
 male or female ?" 
 
 " Fool I" sneered Sergius, throwing himself back, " what 
 dispute can there be ? Do you think that I would deny my 
 word ? And do you suppose I did not know your aims, 
 cunningly as you may think you veiled them ? Would I 
 have given up Leta to you, if she had been of any further 
 value to myself ? By the gods ! had you waited a while, I 
 do not know but what I would have made her a present to 
 you ; not, however, to oblige you, but to punish her 1" 
 
 The comedian listened in chopfallen amazement. Al- 
 ready it seemed to him that his prize had lost half its value. 
 
 " Be at rest, though," Sergius continued, in a contemptu- 
 ous tone. " I have merely tired of her, that is all. Her 
 eyes.aVe as bright and her voice as silvery as ever. She 
 may not ever come to love you much, but she will have the 
 wit to pretend that she does ; and if she makes you believe 
 her — as you doubtless will — it will be all the same thing to 
 you. Who knows, too, with what zeal she may worm her- 
 self into your affection, under the guidance of her ambition ? 
 For, that she has ambition, you will soon discover. By 
 Bacchus ! since you have no wife or household to fetter 
 your fancies, it would not surprise me were you to succumb 
 to her wiles, and to make of her your wife. You may re- 
 cline there and smile with incredulity ; but such things 
 have been done before this, and by men who would not con- 
 descend to look upon one in your poor station. Yes, I will 
 wager that, in the end, you will make of her your wife. 
 Well, it would be no harm to you. She will then deceive 
 you, of course ; but what of that ? Have not better men 
 
194 ^ N O N E . 
 
 submitted to that inevitable lot ? Yes, she will deceive 
 you ; and then will smile upon you, and you will believe 
 her word, and be again deceived. But you will have only 
 yourself to blame for it. I have warned you in advance." 
 
^ N N E . 195 
 
 CHAPTEE XV. 
 
 As the shouts of laug-hter elicited by the host s remark 
 rang through the hall, drowning the muttered response of 
 the comedian, Leta glided softly and rapidly from behind 
 the screen of tapestry which veiled the open doorway. 
 There, crouching out of sight, she had remained concealed 
 for the last hour — watching the revellers through a crevice 
 in the needlework, and vainly hoping, either in the words 
 or face of Sergius, to detect some tone or expression in- 
 dicative of regretful thought or recollection of herself 
 When at last her name had been mentioned, for a moment 
 she had eagerly held her breath, lest she might lose one 
 syllable from which an augury of her fate could be drawn. 
 Then, repressing, with a violent effort, the cry of despair 
 which rose to her lips, upon hearing herself thus coolly 
 and disdainfully surrendered as the stake of a game of dice, 
 and with less apparent regret than would have been felt 
 for the loss of a single gold piece, she drew the fold of her 
 dress closely about her and passed out. 
 
 Out through the antechamber — down the stairway — and 
 into the central court ; no other purpose guiding her foot- 
 steps than that of finding, some place where she could 
 reflect, without disturbance, upon the fate before her. In 
 that heated hall she must have died ; but it might be that 
 in the, cool, open air, she could conquer the delirium which 
 
196 iENONE. 
 
 threatened to overwnelni her, and could thus regain her 
 self-control. If only for five minutes, it might be well. 
 With her quick energy and power of decision, even five 
 minutes of cool, deliberate counsel with herself might 
 suflBce to shape and direct her whole future life. 
 
 Hardly realizing how she had come there, she found her- 
 self sitting upon the coping of the courtyard fountain. 
 The night was dark, for thick clouds shut out the gleam of 
 moon and stars. No one could see her, nor was it an hour 
 when any one was likely to be near. From one end to the 
 other the court was deserted, except by herself. No light, 
 oftier than the faint glow from the windows of the banquet 
 hall upon the story above her. No sound beyond the sullen 
 splash of the water falling into the marble basin of the 
 fountain. There was now but little to interfere with de- 
 liberate reflection. 
 
 What demon had possessed the Fates that they should 
 have brought this lot upon her? It could not be the 
 destiny which had been marked out for her from the first. 
 That had been a different one, she was sure. Her instinct 
 had whispered peace and success to her. Such were the 
 blessings which should have been unravelled for her from 
 off the twirling spindle ; but some malignant spirit must 
 have substituted another person's deserved condemnation in 
 place of her more kindly lot. 
 
 That she had failed in aSaining the grand end of her 
 desires was not, of itself, the utmost of her misfortune. 
 She had aimed high, because it was as easy to do that as 
 to accept a lower object of ambition. She had taken her 
 course, believing that all things are possible to the ener- 
 
^ N N E . 197 
 
 getic and daring, bnt at the same time fully realizing the 
 
 chances of failure. But to fail had simply seemed to her to 
 
 remain where she was, instead of ascending higher — ^to 
 
 miss becoming the wife of the imperator, but to continue, 
 I 
 
 as before, the main guide and direction of his thoughts, 
 impulses, and affections. 
 
 And now, without previous token or warning, had come 
 upon her the terrible realization that she had not only 
 gained nothing, but had lost all, and that the fatal chance 
 which had fettered her schemes, bad also led to her further 
 degradation. Thrown aside like a broken toy — with a jeer- 
 ing confession that she had wearied her possessor — with a 
 cool, heartless criticism upon her character, and with cruel 
 prophecies about her future — gambled for with one whose 
 sight filled her with abhorrence — and, when won, made 
 over to him as a bone is tossed to a dog — what more bitter- 
 ness could be heaped upon her ? 
 
 But there was now no use in mourning about the past. 
 What had been done could not be altered. Nor could she 
 disguise from herself the impossibility of ever regaining 
 her former position and influence. Those had passed away 
 forever. She must now look to the future alone, and 
 endeavor so to shape its course as to afford herself some 
 relief from its terrors'. Possibly there might yet be found 
 a way of escape. 
 
 Should she try to fly? That, she knew, could not be 
 done — at least, alone. The world was wide, but the arm 
 of the imperial police was long ; and though she might, for 
 a little while, wander purposelessly hither and thither, yet 
 before many hours the well-directed efforts of a pursuer 
 
198 2BN0NE. 
 
 would be sure to arrest her. She could die— for in every 
 place death is within reach of the resolute ; but she did not 
 wish to die. For one instant, indeed, she thought of the 
 Tiber, and the peace whiph might be found beneath its flow 
 — but only for an instant. And she almost thanked the 
 gods in her heart that it had not yet gone so far with her 
 as that. » 
 
 Burying her face in her hands, she sat for a moment, 
 endeavoring to abstract her thoughts from all outward 
 objects, so as the more readily to determine what course to 
 adopt. But for a while it seemed as though it was impos- 
 sible for her to fix her mind aright. Each instant some 
 intruding trifle interfered to distract her attention from the 
 only great object which now should claim it. A long-for- 
 gotten incident of the past would come into her mind — or 
 perhaps some queer, conceit which at the time had caused 
 laughter. She did not laugh now, but none the less would 
 she find herself revolving the merits of the speech or action. 
 Then, the soft fall of the water into the fountain basin 
 annoyed her, and it occurred to her that it might be this 
 which prevented undivided reflection. Stooping over, 
 therefore, and feeling along the edge of the basin, she 
 found the vent of the pipes, and stopped the flow. At once 
 the light stream began to diminish and die away, until in a 
 moment the water was at rest, except for the few laggard 
 drops which one by one rolled ofi' the polished shoulders of. 
 the bronze figures. These gradually all trickled down, and 
 then it seemed as though at last there must be silence. 
 But the murmur of the evening breeze among the trees 
 intervened ; and, far more exasperating than all, she could 
 
^ N O N E . 199 
 
 now hear the bursts qf merriment which rang out from the 
 banqueting room overhead. Therefore, once more putting 
 her hand into the basin, she turned on the flow, and the 
 gentle stream again sprang from the upstretched beak of 
 the stork and fell down, deadening all lesser sounds. 
 
 Then Leta looked up at the sky, overspread with its 
 thick pall of clouds, and wondered vacantly whether there 
 would be rain upon the morrow ; and if so, whether the 
 games appointed for the new amphitheatre would take 
 place. But she recovered herself with a start, and again 
 buriect her face in her hands. What were games and com- 
 bats of that kind to her ? She was to enter upon a dif- 
 ferent kind of struggle. She must reflect — ^reflect 1 — and 
 when she had reflected, must act I 
 
 For ten minutes she thus remained ; and now, indeed, 
 seemed to have gained the- required . concentration of 
 thought. No outward sound disturbed her. Once a Nubian 
 slave, who had heard the stoppage of the fountain's flow, 
 emerged from beneath an archway, as though to examine 
 into the difficulty. Finding that the water was still playing 
 as usual, he imagined that he must have been mistaken, 
 gave utterance to an oath in condemnation of his own stu- 
 pidity, slowly walked around the basin, looked inquiringly 
 at Leta, and, for the moment, made as though he would have 
 accosted her — and then, changing his mind, withdrew and 
 walked back silently into the house. Still she did not move. 
 At length, however, she raised her head and stood up- 
 right. Her eyes now shone with deep intensity of purpose, 
 and her lips were firmly set. Something akin to a smile 
 flickered around the corners of her mouth, betraying not 
 
200 ^ N N E . 
 
 pleasure, but satisfaction. She had evidently reflected to 
 some purpose, and now the time for action had arrived. 
 
 " Strange that I should not have thought of it before," 
 she murmured to herself. Then stepping under the arch- 
 way which led from the courtyard into the palace, she 
 reached up against the wall and took down two keys which 
 hung there. Holding them tightly, so that they might not 
 clink together, she glided along, past the fountain — through 
 the clamp of plane-trees — ^keeping as much as possible in 
 the deeper shadows of arch and shrubbery — and so on 
 along the whole length of the court, until she stood by the 
 range of lower erections which bounded its further extrem-- 
 ity. Then, fitting one of the keys into an iron door, she 
 softly unlocked it. 
 
 Entering,'she stood within a low stone cell. It was the 
 prison-house of the palace, used for the reception of new 
 slaves, and for the punishment of such others as gave 
 ofiFence. It was a long, narrow apartment, paved with 
 stone and lighted by a single grated aperture set high in 
 the wall upon the courtyard side. The place was of suffi- 
 cient dimensions to hold fifty or sixty persons,, but, in the 
 present case, there was but one tenant — Oleotos. Not even 
 a guard was with him, for the strength of the walls and the 
 locks were considered amply sufficient.to prevent escape. 
 
 Cleotos was sitting upon a stone bench, resting his head 
 upon his right hand. At the opening of the door he looked 
 up. He could not see who it was that entered, but the 
 light tread and the faint rustle of a waving dress suffi- 
 ciently indicated the sex. If it had been daylight, a flush 
 might have been seen upon his face, for the thought flashed 
 
^NONE. 201 
 
 • upon his mind that it might be ^none herself coming to his 
 assistance. But the first word undeceived him ; and he let 
 his head once more fall between the palms of his hands. 
 
 " Cleotos," whispered Leta, " it is I. I have come to set 
 you free." 
 
 " It is right," he said, moodily. " All this I owe to you 
 alone. It is fit that you should try to undo your work." 
 
 " Could I foresee that it would come to this ?" she re- 
 sponded, attempting justification. "How was I to know 
 that my trivial transgression would have ended so sorrow- 
 fully for you ? But all that is easily mended. You have 
 money, and a token which will identify you to the proper 
 parties. There is yet time to reach Ostia before that ship 
 can sail." 
 
 " How knew you that I had gold — or this signet-ring ; or 
 that there was a ship to sail from Ostia ?" he exclaimed 
 with sudden fierceness. " You, then, had been listening at 
 the door ! And having listened, you must have known 
 with what innocence we spoke together ! And yet, seeing 
 all this, you called him to the spot and left him to let his 
 eyes be deceived and his heart filled with bitter jealousy, 
 and have played upon his passion by wicked misrepresenta- 
 tion, until you have succeeded in bringing ruin upon all 
 about you ! I see it all now, as clearly as though it were 
 written upon a parchment rolled out before me ! To think 
 that the gods have beheld you doing this thing, and yet 
 have not stricken you dead !" 
 
 "I have sinned," she murmured, seizing his hand and 
 dending over, so that a ready tear rolled down upon it. He 
 felt it fall, but moved not. Only a few days before, her 
 
 9* 
 
202 ^ N N E . 
 
 tears would have softened him ; but now his heart was 
 hardened against her. He had found out that her nature 
 was cruel and not easily moved to repentance, and that, if 
 emotion was ever suffered to overcome her, it was tolerated 
 solely for some crafty design. The falling tear, therefore, 
 simply bade him be upon his guard against deceit, lest once 
 again she might succeed in weaving her wiles about him. 
 Or, if she really wept with repentance, he knew that it was 
 not repentance for the sin itself, but rather for some baffled 
 purpose. 
 
 " Go on," he simply said. 
 
 " I have sinned," she repeated, still clinging to his hands. 
 " But, Oleotos 1 when I offer to undo ray work and set 
 you free, you will surely forgive me ?" 
 
 "Yes, it is right that you should repair the mischief you 
 have caused," he repeated ; " and I will avail myself of it. 
 To-night, since you offer to set me free, and claim that you 
 have the power to do so— to-night for Ostia ; and then, 
 then away forever from this ruthless land ! But stay 1 
 What of our mistress ? I will not go hence until I know 
 that she is safe and well." 
 
 " She is well," responded Leta, fearful lest the truth 
 might throw a new obstacle before her plans. " And all is 
 again right between -her lord and herself, for I have as- 
 sured him of her innocence." 
 
 "Then, since this is so, there is no motive for me to 
 tarry," he said. He believed her, and was satisfied ; not 
 that he esteemed her worthy of belief, but because it did 
 not seem to him possible that suth a matter as a grateful 
 kiss upon a protecting hand could require much explana- 
 
^ N N E . 203 
 
 tion. " I would like well once more to see her and bid her 
 farewell, and utter my thanks for all her kindness ; but to 
 what purpose ? I have done that already,, and could do and 
 say no more than I have already done and said. There re- 
 mains, therefore, nothing more than to fulfil her commands, 
 and return to my native home. But tell her, Leta, that my 
 last thought was for her, and that her memory will ever 
 live in my heart." 
 
 " I cannot ' tell her this," slowly murmured Leta, " for I 
 shall not see her again. I — I go with you." 
 
 Oleotos listened for a moment in perplexed wonderment, 
 and then, for his sole answer, dropped her hand and turned 
 away. She understood him as well as though he had 
 spoken the words of refusal. 
 
 " You will not take me with you, then ; is it not so ?" 
 she said. " Some nice point of pride, or some feeling of 
 fancied wrong, or craving for revenge, or, perhaps, love for 
 another person, tells you now to separate yourself from me ! 
 And yet you loved me once. This, then, is man's promised , 
 faith!" 
 
 " You dare to talk to me of faith and broken vows 1" he 
 exclaimed, after a moment of speechless amazement at her 
 hardiness in advancing such a plea. " You, who for weeks 
 have treated me with scorn and indifference — who have 
 plotted against me, until my life itself has iJeen brought 
 into danger-j-who, apart from all that, cast me off when 
 first we met in Eome, telling me then that I was and could 
 be nothing to you, yes, even that our association from the 
 first had been a mistake and a wrong 1 Yes, Leta, there 
 was a time when I truly loved you, as man had never then 
 
204 ^NONE. 
 
 done, or since, or ever will again ; but impute not to me 
 the blame that I cannot do so now." 
 
 " I was to blame," she said ; and it seemed that this 
 night must be a night of confession for her, in so few things 
 could she justify herself by denial or argument. " I ac- 
 knowledge my fault, and how my heart has been drawn 
 from you by some delusion, as powerful and resistless as 
 though the result of magic. But when I confess it freely, 
 and tell you how I now see my duty and my heart more 
 clearly, as though a veil of error had been drawn away, 
 and when, after all, I find no forgiveness in your heart, 
 said I not truly that man's faith Cannot be trusted ? Am I 
 not the same Leta as of old ?" 
 
 " The same as of old ?" he exclaimed. " Can yoiv look 
 earnestly and truthfully into your soul, and yet avow 
 that you are the pure-hearted girl who roamed hand, in 
 hand with me only a year ago, in our native isle, content 
 to have no ambition except that of living a humble life 
 with me ? And now, with your sin;iple tastes and desires 
 swept away — with your soul buried beneath a love of 
 material pleasures as under a lava crust — wrapt up in 
 longing for Eome's most sinful, artificial excesses — hav- 
 ing, for gold or position or power or ambition, or what 
 not, so long as it was not for love, given yourself up a 
 willing victim to a heartless master — do you dare, after 
 this, to talk to me of love, and call yourself the same ?" 
 
 " And are you one of those who believe that there can 
 be no forgiveness for repentant woman ?" 
 
 " Of forgiveness, all that can be; desired ; but of forget- 
 fulness, none. There is one thing that no man can for- 
 
^NONE. 205 
 
 get ; and were I to repulse the admonitions of my judg- 
 ment, and strive to pass that thing by, who would sooner 
 scorn me than yourself? Let all this end. Know that 
 I love you not, and could never love you again. Your 
 scorn, indifference, and deceit have long ago crushed from 
 my heart all the love it once held. Know further, that 
 if I did 1 still love you, my pride would condemn the feel- 
 ing, and I would never rest until I had destroyed it, 
 even were it necessary to destroy myself rather than to 
 yield." 
 
 " These are brave words, indeed 1" she exclaimed, taunt- 
 ed by his rebuke into a departure from her assumption 
 of affection. " But they better suit the freeman upon his 
 own mountain-side than the slave in his cell. Samos is 
 still afar off. The road from here to Ostia has not yet 
 been traversed by you in safety. Even this door between 
 you and the open street has not been thrown back. And 
 yet you dare to taunt me, knowing that I hold in my hand 
 the key, and, by withdrawing it, can take away all hope 
 from you. Do you realize what will be your fate if you 
 remain here — how that on the morrow the lions and leop- 
 ards of the amphitheatre will quarrel over your scattered 
 limbs ?" 
 
 " Is this a threat ?" he cried. " Is it to assure me that 
 if I do not give my love where my honor tells me it should 
 not be given, I must surely die ? So, then, let it be. I 
 accept the doom. One year ago, I would have cheerfully 
 fought in the arena for your faintest smile. Now I would 
 rather die there than have your sullied love forced upon 
 me." 
 
206 ^ N O N E . 
 
 Without another word he sat down again upon the stone 
 bench. Even in that darkness she could note how resolute 
 was his expression, how firm and unyielding his attitude. 
 She had roused his nature as she had never seen it before. 
 She had not believed that a spirit which she had been ac- 
 customed to look upon as so much inferior in strength to 
 her own, could show such unflinching determination ; and 
 for the moment she stood admiring him, and wondering 
 whether, if he had always acted like that, he might not 
 have bound her soul to his own and kept her to himself 
 through all temptation and trial. Then, taking the other 
 key, she unlocked the door in the rear wall of the cell, and 
 threw it open. The narrow street behind the court was be- 
 fore him, and he was free to go. 
 
 " I meant it not for a threat," she said. " However low 
 I may sink, I have not yet reached the pass of wishing to 
 purchase or beg for affection. Why I spoke thus, I know 
 not. It may be that I thought some gratitude might be due 
 me for rescuing you. But I cannot tell what I thought. 
 Or it might have been that words were necessary for me, 
 and th'at I used the first that came. But let that pass. 
 Know only that your safety lies before you, and that it is 
 in your power to grasp it. And now, fa,rewell. You leave 
 me drifting upon a downward course^ Cleotos. Sometimes, 
 perhaps, when another person is at your side, making your 
 life far happier than I could have made it, you will think 
 kindly of me." 
 
 " I think kindly of you now, Leta," he said. "Whatever 
 love I can give, apart from the love wTiich I once asked 
 you to accept, is yours. In every thing that brotherly affeo- 
 
as N O N E . 207 
 
 tion can bestow, there will be no limit to my care and inter- 
 eat for you. Nay, more, you shall now go away from hence 
 with me ; and though I cannot promise more than a broth- 
 er's love, yet with that for your guide and protection, you 
 can reach your native home in peace and security, and 
 there work out whatever repentance you may have here 
 begun."^ 
 
 " And when we are there, and those who have known us 
 begin to ask why, when Cleotos has brought Leta back in 
 safety, he regards her only as a sister and a friend, and 
 otherwise remains sternly apart from her, what answer can 
 be given which will not raise suspicion and scorn, and 
 make my life a burden to me ? No, Cleotos, it cannot be. 
 Cruel as my lot may be here, I have only myself to answer 
 for it, and it is easier to hide myself from notice in this 
 whirl of sin and passion than if at home again. And what- 
 ever may henceforth happen to me, the Fates are surely 
 most to blame. How can one avoid his destiny ?" 
 
 " The Fates do not carve out our destiny," he said. 
 " They simply carry into relentless effect the judgments 
 which our own passions and weaknesses have pronounced 
 upon ourselves. Leta ! have you considered what you 
 are resolved upon encountering ? Do you not know that 
 some day this master of yours will tire of you, and fling 
 you to a friend of his — a soldier, actor, or what not — 
 that as the years run on and your beauty fades, you will 
 fall lower and lower ? Have not thousands like yourself 
 thus gone on, until at last, becoming old and worthless, 
 they are left to die alone upon some island in the Tiber ? 
 Pray that you may die a better death than that !" 
 
208 ^NONE. 
 
 " It is a sad picture," she answered. " It is not merely 
 possible, but also probable. I acknowledge it all. And 
 yet, if I saw it all unrolled before me as my certain doom, 
 I do not know that I would try to shun it. Already the 
 glitter of this world has changed my soul from what it was, 
 and I am now too feeble of purpose to spend long years in 
 retrieving the errors of the past. There came into my heart 
 a thought — a selfish thought — that you might forget what 
 has gone before ; and then it seemed that I might succeed 
 in winning back my peace, and so shun the fate which lies 
 before me. But you cannot forget. I blame you not ; you 
 are right. You have never spoken more truly than when 
 you said that I would have despised you if you had yielded. 
 Therefore, that hope is gone ; and now I must submit to 
 the destiny which is coming upon me." 
 
 " But, Leta, only strive to think that — ^"- 
 
 " Nay, what is the use ? Eather let me throw all regrets 
 away, and strive not to think at all. Why not yield with a 
 pleasant grace to the current, when we know that in the 
 end, struggle as we may, it will surely sweep us under ?" 
 
 " Leta — dear Leta — " 
 
 " Not a word, dear Cleotos ; it must not be. From this 
 hour I banish all human affections from my heart, as I ban- 
 ish all hope. Gould you remain here, you would see how 
 relentless and fierce my nature will grow. Plots and 
 schemes' shall now be my amusement ; for if I must be 
 destroyed, others shall fall with me. This must be the 
 last tender impulse of my life. I know not why it is, 
 but I could now really weep. Cleotos, forgive me ! I 
 came hither, loving you not, but hoping to beguile you 
 
^ N N E . 209 
 
 into receiving me again. I have failed, and I ought to 
 hate you for it ; and yet I almost love you instead. It is 
 strange, is it not ?" 
 
 "But, Leta— " 
 
 " How my heart no-vy feels soft and tender with our rec- 
 ollections of other days 1 Do you remember, Cleotos, how 
 once, when children, we went together and stole the grapes 
 from Eminides' vine ? And how, when he would have beat 
 en you, I stood before you, and prevented him ? Who 
 would then have thought that, in a few years, we should 
 be here in Rome — slaves, and parting forever ? We shall 
 never again together see Eminides' vineyard, shall we ?" 
 
 " Leta — my sister — " 
 
 " There, there ; speak not, but go at once, for some one 
 comes near. Tarry no longer. If at home they ask after 
 me, tell them I am dead. Farewell, dear Cleotos. Kiss me 
 good-by. Do not grudge me that, at least. And may the 
 gods bless you !" 
 
 He would still have spoken, would have claimed a min- 
 ute to plead with her and try to induce her to leave the 
 path she was pursuing, and go with him. But at that in- 
 stant the voice of some one approaching sounded louder, 
 and the tones of Sergius could be distinguished as he tried 
 to troll forth the catch of a drinking melody. There was no 
 time to lose. With a farewell pressure of her arm about 
 Cleotos' neck, Leta pushed him through the aperture into 
 the dark back street ; and then, leaving the keys in the 
 locks, turned again into the garden, and fled towards the 
 house. 
 
210 ^NONE. 
 
 CHAPTER XVI. 
 
 Gliding softly through the shrubbery, and beneath one 
 of the side colonnades, Leta gained the house uiiperceived, 
 passing Sergius, who loitered where she had been sitting, 
 upon the coping of the fountain basin. His friends had 
 departed, bearing away with them his gold and much else 
 that was of value ; and he, with the consciousness of evil 
 besetting him on every side, had morbidly wandered out to 
 try if in the cool air he could compose his thoughts to so- 
 briety. As he sat rocking to and fro, and humming to 
 himself broken snatches of song, Leta stood under one of 
 the arches of the court, glowering at him, and half hoping 
 that he would lose his balance and fall into the water be- 
 hind. It was not deep enough to drown him, but if it had 
 been, she felt in no mood to rescue him. In a few moments, 
 however, the fresh breeze partially dissipating the fumes 
 of the wine which he had drunk, somewhat revived him ; 
 making him more clearly conscious of his misfortunes, in- 
 deed, but engendering in him, for the instant, a new and 
 calmer state of feeling, which was not sobriety, i)ut which 
 differed from either his former careless recklessness or 
 maddening ferocity. And in this new phase of mind, he 
 sat and revolved and re-revolved, in ever-recurring se- 
 quence, the things that had befallen him, and his changed 
 position in the world. 
 
^NONE. 211 
 
 Alone now, — for she, jEnone, had left him. Left him for 
 a stripling of a slave — a mere creature from the public 
 market. What was the loss of gold and jewels and 
 quarries to this ! And how could he ever hold up his 
 head again, with this heavy shame upon it 1 For there 
 could be no doubt ;— ^alas ! no. Had he not seen her prfess 
 a kiss upon the slave's forehead? Had she not tenderly- 
 raised the menial's head upon her knee with caressing 
 pity? And, throughout all, had she &,ttempted one word 
 of justification ? Yes, — alone in the world now, with no one 
 to love or care for him 1 For she must be put away from 
 him forever ; she must never call him husband more. That 
 was a certain thing. But yet — arid a kindly gleam came into 
 'his face for the moment — even though guilty she might not be 
 thoroughly and utterly corrupt. If he could, at least, believe 
 that she had been sorely tempted — if he could only, for the 
 sake of past memories, learn to pity her, rather than to hate 1 
 And this became now the tenor of his thoughts. In his deep 
 reflection of a few hours before, he had tried to believe that 
 she was innocent. Now, circumstances of suspicion had 
 so overwhelmed her, that he could not think her innocent ; 
 but he could have wished to believe her less guilty, and 
 thereby have cherished a kindly feeling towards her. 
 
 Eising up, and now for the first time seeing Leta, as she 
 still stood under the archway and watched him, he tottered 
 towards her ; and, incited by this new impulse of generous 
 feeling, he pleaded to her — humbling his pride, indeed, 
 but in all else, whether in word or action, clothing himself 
 with the graceful dignity of true and earnest manliness. 
 
 "Tell me," he said, "whether you know aught about her 
 
212 ^NONE. 
 
 which can calm my soul and give me the right to think 
 better of her. You cannot make me believe that she is 
 innocent — I do not ask it of you. That hope is past for- 
 ever. But it may be that you can reveal more than you 
 have yet mentioned to me. You have vs^atched her, I know. 
 Perhaps, therefore, you can tell me that she struggled long 
 with herself before she abandoned me. Even that assur- 
 ance will help me to think more pityingly of her. Remem- 
 ber that there was a time when I loved her ; and, for the 
 sake of that time, help me to feel and act generously 
 towards her." 
 
 As Leta gazed upon him, and saw how his late impe- 
 riousness had given place to earnest, sorrowful entreaty, 
 she hesitated for the moment how to answer him. There 
 is, perhaps, a latent sympathy in the hardest heart ; and 
 despite her resolve to become at once lost and unpitying, 
 some sparks of tender feeling, kindled into life by her part- 
 ing with Oleotos, yet glimmered in her breast. Cleotos 
 having gone away, she felt strangely lonesome. Little as 
 she had regarded him when present, it now seemed as 
 though, in separating from him, she had lost a portion of 
 her own being. Certainly with him had departed the last 
 link that bound her to her native land ; and though she 
 never expected to return thither, yet it was not pleasant to 
 feel that she had been cut asunder from all possibility of 
 it. Now, for the moment, she was in the mood to look 
 around her for a friend to lean upon ; and it might be that 
 she could find that friend in Sergius, if she would consent 
 to let her vengeance sleep, and would forbear to pursue 
 him with further machinations. His love, to be sure, was 
 
^ N N B . 218 
 
 gone from her, never to be restored ; but, after all, might 
 it not be better to retain his friendship than to incur his 
 hate ? And if she were now to make full disclosure of the 
 past, and ask his pardon, who could estimate the possible 
 limits of the forgiveness and generosity which, in his 
 newly found liappiness, he might extend to her ? And 
 then, now that her plans had failed, what need of inflict- 
 ing further misery upon those who, in their former trust, 
 had lavished kindnesses upon her ? And once more her 
 thoughts reverted to Cleotos ; and with that feeling of 
 utter loneliness sinking into her heart, and making her 
 crave even to be thought well of by another, she reflected 
 how that friend of her youth would not fail to ask the 
 blessing of the gods upon her, if ever, in his native home, 
 he were to hear that she had acted a generous part, and, 
 by a few simple and easily spoken words, had swept away 
 the web of mischief which her arts had woven. 
 
 " What can I say ?" she exclaimed, hesitatingly, as she 
 met the pleading look which Sergius fastened upon her. 
 
 " Say the best you can ; so, that, though I can never for- 
 give her, I may not think more harshly of her than I ought. 
 Can I forget that I loved her for years before I ever met 
 yourself; and, that, but for you, I might be loving h^r 
 still ? Can I forget that it was not for my own glory, but 
 for hers, that I tore myself away from her and went to 
 these late wars, hoping to win new honors, only that I 
 might place them at her feet ? Night after night, as I lay 
 in my tent and gazed up at the sky, I thought of her alone, 
 and how that the stars shone with equal light upon us 
 both ; and I nerved my soul with new strength, to finish 
 
214 ^ N N E . 
 
 my task with diligence, so that I might the more quickly 
 return to her side. And then, Leta, then it was that I met 
 yourself ; and how sadly and basely I yielded to the fasci- 
 nations you threw about me, you too well know. It was 
 not love I felt for you ; think it not. My passion for you 
 was no more like the calm affection with which I had cher- 
 ished her, than is the flame which devours the village like 
 the moonlight which so softly falls upon and silvers yonder 
 fountain. But, for all that, it has brought destruction upon 
 me. And now — " 
 
 " And now, Sergius ?" 
 
 " Now I am undone by reason of it. From the first mo- 
 ment your ensnaring glance met mine, I was undone, 
 though I then knew it not. Then was my pure love for 
 her obscured. Then, impelled by I know not what infernal 
 spirit, I began my downward course of deceit, until at last 
 I almost learned to hate her whom I had so much loved, 
 and met her, at the end, with but a simulated affection ; 
 caring but little for her, indeed, but not — the gods be 
 thanked ! — so far gone in my selfish cruelty as to be able 
 to wound her heart by open neglect in that hour of her joy. 
 Whatever I may have done since then, that day, at least, 
 her happiness was' undimmed. How gladly would I now 
 give up all the honors I have gained, if I could but restore 
 the peace and quiet of the past I Eemembering all this, 
 Leta, and how much of this cruel wrong is due to you, 
 can you not have pity ? I know that she would never 
 have been exposed to this temptation but for my own neg- 
 lect of her, and but for the fact that you had ambitious 
 purposes of your own to work out. Nay, I chide you not. 
 
^NONE. 215 
 
 Let all that pass and be forgotten. I will be generous, and 
 never mention it again, if you will only tell me how far 
 your arts, rather than her own will, have led her astray. 
 It cannot harm you now to freely utter every thing. The 
 time for me to resent it is past. I have no further power 
 over you, or the will to exercise it if I had." 
 
 A moment before, and she had been on the point of yield- 
 ing to the unaccustomed pity that she began to feel, and 
 so make full disclosure. But now, as, almost unconsciously 
 to himself, Sergius spoke of her baffle'd hopes and vaguely 
 hinted at her altered position towards himself — a change 
 of which he believed her to be yet ignorant — her fount of 
 mercy became instantly sealed up, and her nearly melted 
 heart again turned to flint. Yes, she had almost forgotten 
 her new destiny. But now at once appeared before her, 
 with all the vividness of reality, the banquet hall, ringing 
 with the shrill laughter of the heated revellers, as, with the 
 dicebox, they decided her future fate. Like a flash the 
 softened smile fled from her face, leaving only cold, vin- 
 dictive defiance pictured there. And as Sergius, who had 
 been led on from utterance to utterance by the increasing 
 signs of compassion he read in her, saw the sudden and 
 unaccountable change, he paused, in mingled wonderment 
 and dismay ; and, with the conviction that his hopes had 
 failed him, he put off, in turn, his own softened mien, and glar- 
 ing back defiance upon her, prepared for desperate struggle. 
 
 "You speak of my new ownership — of the actor Bas- 
 sus ?" she exclaimed. 
 
 " You know it, then ?" cried he. " You have played the 
 spy upon us ?" 
 
216 iENONE. 
 
 " Know it ?" she repeated. " When, in your wild revel- 
 ling, your raised voices told me how heedlessly you were 
 bringing ruin upon yourself with the dice, would I have 
 been any thing but a fool not to have remembered that I 
 too, being your property, might pass away with the rest ? 
 Was it not fit, then, that I should have stolen to the screen 
 and listened ? You thought to keep it secret, perhaps, 
 until Bassus should send to take me away from here ; for 
 you imagined that I might attempt escape. But you do 
 not know me yet. Am I -a child, to kick and scream, and 
 waste my strength in unavailing strife against a fate that, 
 in my heart, I feel must sooner or later be submitted to ? 
 Not long ago — it matters not how or when — T could have 
 avoided it all, but would not. Now that I have sacrificed 
 that chance, I will go to my doom with a smile upon my 
 lips, whatever heaviness may be in my heart ; for, having 
 chosen my path, I will not shrink from following it. Thus 
 much for myself. And as for you, who have tossed me one 
 side to the first poor brute who has begged for me, and 
 even at this instant have taunted me with the story of 
 baffled hopes, does it seem becoming in you to appeal 
 longer to me, as you have done, for comfort ?" 
 
 No answer ; but in the angry, heated glare with which 
 he faced her, could be seen the new fury which was rising 
 within him — all the more violent, perhaps, from the late 
 calm that had possessed him. 
 
 " And yet, for the sake of the past, I might even be will- 
 ing to comfort you, if it were possible,'' she continued, cast- 
 ing about in her mind for new tortures with which to rack 
 him, and now suddenly struck with an inward joy, as her 
 
iENONB. 217 
 
 ever-ready invention came to her aid. "Yes, if I knew 
 aught of good to tell, I would mention it, for the memory 
 of other days. But how can I speak with truth, unless to 
 recapitulate new deceits and wiles which she has practised 
 upon you, and of which, may the gods be my witness 1 I 
 would have told you before, but dared not ? You say that 
 you have never loved me, Sergius Vanno. It is well. 
 But if you had done so, I would have been faithful to you 
 to the end. You say that you loved her, and that, but for 
 your own falsehood, she would not have strayed from you. 
 Poor dupe ! to believe that, for all that meek pale face of 
 hers, she cannot resolve, and act, and mask her purposes as 
 cunningly as any of the rest of her sex ! Shall I tell you 
 more ? Do you dream that, while you have been revelling, 
 she has been idly whimpering in her chamber ? Had you 
 watched outside with me, you might have known better.- 
 Look above your head, Sergius, to where the prison keys 
 are wont to hang, and tell me where they are now !" 
 
 More from mechanical instinct than from any actual pur- 
 pose of mind — for he did not, at the first instant, fully com- 
 prehend her meaning — Sergius followed the motion of her 
 hand, and gazed at the wall above his head ; then passed 
 his fingers along until he touched the empty nail — then 
 looked back inquiringly at her. 
 
 " The keys are gone, are they not ?" she said. " Fool ! 
 to lock up one party to a fault, and yet let the other one go 
 free ! Do you suppose that during your carousing with 
 your boon companions, she would fail to succor him for 
 whose sake she has already lost so much ?" 
 
 Still he gazed at Leta with a look of puzzled inquiry, 
 10 
 
218 iE N N B . 
 
 ■which now began, however, to be disturbed by an expres- 
 sion of painful doubt. Then suddenly, ascertaining that 
 the keys were really gone, her meaning flashed upon him ; 
 and dropping his hand with a wrathful exclamation, he 
 turned and strode into the palace. Not, perhaps, with full 
 conviction of the truth of the suggestion so artfully arrayed 
 before him. But he would at least prove its truth or 
 falsity ; and, with that suspicion fastened upon his bewil- 
 dered and unreasoning mind, to doubt was almost to 
 believe, and crossing the antechamber to ^none's room, he 
 burst in upon her. 
 
 She had fallen into a troubled sleep — lying dressed upon 
 the outside of her couch, as, in her agony of mind, she had 
 first thrown herself down. The unspent tears still trembled 
 upon her eyelids. Beside her lay the little folded parch- 
 ment which Cleotos had given her. She had taken it out 
 to read, hoping, but scarcely believing, that she would now 
 be able to experience the truth of what she had been told 
 about the earnest words there written being divinely 
 adapted to give peace to a troubled heart. But her sor- 
 row was too deep to be healed by phrases whose spirit 
 could, of necessity, be so imperfectly comprehended by 
 her ; and the writing had slipped unheeded from her light 
 grasp. 
 
 As her husband now entered, she awoke and sat upright, 
 in frightened attitude, not knowing what fate was about to 
 befall her. 
 
 " Where is he ? What have you done with him ?" 
 Sergius cried, seizing her by the arm. 
 
 She did not answer, not knowing, of course, wherefore 
 
^ N O N E . 219 
 
 the question, was put to her, or what it concerned. Yet, 
 perceiving that she was again suspected of some act of 
 which she was innocent, she would have asked for mercy 
 and pardon, if time had been given her. But even that 
 was denied her. Hardly, indeed, could she draw a breath, 
 when she felt that a new thread was woven in the web of 
 misconception which surrounded her. For, at that moment, 
 her husband's eye fell upon the forgotten parchment ; and 
 picking it up, he opened it, gave one hasty look, and then 
 tossed it aside. What need, now, of further proof? Was 
 not that the sla>e's writing, recognizable at a glance ? 
 Words of love, of course ! And she had gone to sleep 
 fondly holding them in her hands, as a treasure from which 
 she could not be parted for an instant. Words not freshly 
 written, either, for the parchment was yellow and dis- 
 colored. So much the worse, therefore ; for did it not 
 prove a course of long-continued deception ? Could there 
 be an^ doubt now ? Yes, a long deceit. And this was she 
 for whom, in his simplicity, he had but a moment before 
 been framing excuses, in the effort to convince himself that 
 her fault had been one of impulse, rather than of co61 
 deliberation ! This was she in whose behalf he had weakly 
 lowered himself to plead to his own cast-off slave for ex- 
 tenuating evidences 1 And once more grasping her by the 
 arm, he lifted her from the couch, and, followed by Leta, 
 hurried her across the room into the outer hall, into the 
 courtyard, past the fountain, and so onward until they 
 stood before the prison-house. There, seeing the inner 
 door open, the outer door swinging loosely inward, with the 
 key yet remaining in its lock, and the captive fled, Sergius 
 
220 ^ N N E . 
 
 deemed her new crime fully proved, and again turned madly 
 upon her. 
 
 " Where is he ? What have you done with him ? Am I 
 to be thus balked of my vengeance ? Is it to be endured 
 that, while I entertain my friends, you should steal off so 
 treacherously, and thus complete the dishonor you have 
 brought upon me ?" 
 
 " I have not — done dishonor — to my lord !" she gasped 
 with difiSculty, for she was almost speechless from the 
 rapidity with which he had hurried her along, and his close 
 grasp upon her arm pained her. " Let me but speak — I 
 will explain^ — I know not how — " 
 
 " No falsehood — no pleadings to me I" he cried. " It will 
 avail you nothing now. What more proof do I need ? 
 Is not the whole story written out plainly before my eyes ? 
 Have you not stolen away to release him, preferring his 
 safety and favor to my honor or your own ? If not, where 
 is he ? Escaped me, by the gods 1 Escaped me, after all ! 
 Fool that I have been, to leave those keys within your med- 
 dling reach !" 
 
 Overborne by his violence, not of words merely, but of 
 gesture, ^none had, little by little, shrunk from before him 
 as he spoke, until she had unconsciously passed through the 
 open doorway, and into the ^narrow street beyond. Leta 
 and he still remained within the building, standing beside 
 the swinging door. There was even now but a single pace 
 between ^none and himself, and it was scarcely likely 
 that such a trifling distance could reassure her. It was 
 more probably something in his tone or action which now 
 gave her courage to meet his imputation. Whatever the 
 
i^NONB. 221 
 
 nature of the inspiration, she now suddenly drew herself 
 up, as though endued with new strength, and answered him 
 with something of the same recklessness of spirit with 
 which once before during that day she had cast aside all 
 fear of misconstruction, and, Ivith the sustaining conscious- 
 ness of innocence and justice, had delSed him. 
 
 " Escaped you ?" she cried ; "I thank the gods for it ! 
 I, did not set him free, but I would have done so, had I 
 known how. He was my friend — r^y brother. Would I 
 have left him, do you think, to suffer torture and death for 
 simple kindnesses to me, when, with one turn of a key, I 
 could have released him ? Would I let the memory of 
 other days so completely pass from ray mind as to — " 
 
 How, at that instant, happened the door to close ? Was 
 it owing to the wind, or to a skilful and concealed touch of 
 Leta's hand, or to some unconscioTis pressure of Sergius 
 against it ? The cause matters little. It was enough that, 
 of a sudden, the loosely hanging door swung round on its 
 creaking hinges into its place, fastening- itself securely with 
 a spring-bolt as its edge touched the lintel, and leaving 
 ^none shut out alone in the dark street upon the other 
 side. 
 
 Upon the instant, Sergius sprang forward to reopen the 
 door. Convinced of her perfidy, and madly lashing himself 
 into yet further fury with the consciousness of his wrongs, 
 it was as yet not in his mind that even by accident such a 
 forced separation as this should befall her. His hand was- 
 upon the bolt — in another second it would have been drawn 
 back — when his further action was arrested by a few lowly 
 uttered words of Leta. 
 
222 ^NONE. 
 
 Not spoken to him, for, in his present state of mind, he 
 was more than ever morbidly jealous of any interference or 
 attempted control, and would most surely have disregarded 
 them. But spoken as though to herself, in a kind of whis- 
 pered soliloquy, softly muttered, but yet with utterance 
 suflSciently distinct to reach his watchful ear. 
 
 "Ah, she will not regard that," were the words, "for of 
 course she will know where to rejoin him.'' 
 
 Sergius started as the new idea impressed itself upon 
 him. Could this be true, indeed ? Why not-? Was it 
 likely that the wife would have released the slave whom 
 she loved, and not have told him where they could meet 
 again ? That, surely, would be too foolish an oversight, for 
 it would be throwing away ,all the benefits attending the 
 escape. It were hardly possible that any trust could have 
 been reposed in the prospect of future chance interviews, 
 for that would be but a slender hope to lean upon. In that 
 boiling, seething world of Rome, now more than ever dis- 
 turbed by the inroads of strangers eagerly looking forward 
 to the excitements of the amphitheatre, it would be in vain 
 to make even deliberate and careful search for a lost slave, 
 unless some clew should be left behind. Yes, she must 
 surely have that clew ; and doubtless she purposed to use 
 it as soon as daylight came. Let her go now, therefore. 
 It were idle to call her back only for new flight in a few 
 hours hence. , 
 
 Still with his hand resting upon the bolt as these reflec- 
 tions passed through his mind, Sergius glanced keenly at 
 Leta, as though possessed with some dim suspicion that 
 she had meant her words to be overheard. Then, feeling 
 
iE N O N E . 223 
 
 reassured by her composed attitude, lie turned away, mut- 
 tered something to himself, the import of which she could 
 not catch, dropped his hand from the undrawn bolt to his 
 side, stood for a moment in a kind of maze of confusion, and 
 finally left the prison, and staggered through the garden to 
 the house. 
 
224 iS N N E . 
 
 CHAPTEK XVII. 
 
 Stunned aud confused by her sudden exclusion, and 
 naturally believing that it was the rfesult of deliberate ac- 
 tion upon her husband's part, .iEnone now felt all her sud- 
 den inspiration of courage deserting her, and sank half 
 fainting against the outside wall. For a moment it seemed 
 to her like a dream. She could realize suspicion, harsh 
 language, and even cruel treatment to a certain limit, for 
 these were all within the scope of her late experience ; but 
 it was hard to comprehend this unlooked-for and aj)parently 
 deliberate excess of degradation. But gradually the mist 
 cleared away from her bewildered mind, and she recognized 
 the reality of what had befallen her. Still, however, her 
 thoughts could not at once grapple with the overwhelming 
 sense of the indignity and suffering cast upon her. She 
 could not doubt that she had been expelled from her lord's 
 house — cast out unprotected and friendless in the midst of 
 night, with undeserved reproaches. But, for all that, a delu- 
 sive hope clung to her. He could not mean that this should 
 last. It was but an impulse of sudden anger. He, would 
 repent of it in a moment, and would call upon her to return 
 to him. He would shed tears of bitter shame, perhaps, and 
 would beg that she would forgive him. And she would be 
 foolish enough to do so, she felt, at the very first pleading 
 word from him ; though at the same time whispering that 
 
JE N O N B . 225 
 
 her own self-respect should prompt her to show more last- 
 ing resentment. If she thus easily forgot the past, what 
 security could she have that, in some future transport of 
 rage, he might not repeat the act ? Btit for all that, she 
 felt that she would weakly too soon forgive him. 
 
 Sliding her trembling hand down the damp wall, she 
 found along its foot a ledge of stone more or less projecting 
 in different sections, in accordance with the architectural 
 requirements of the building. Seating herself upon the 
 widest portion of this , ledge, she now waited to hear the 
 key again turned in the lock_and the door swung open upon 
 its creaking hinges, and to see loving arms extended with 
 repentant words of self-reproach. Once or twice she fan- 
 cied that she heard the key softly fitted into its place, but 
 it was only the abrasion of two contiguous branches of a 
 plane-tree overhead. Once again she felt certain that she 
 heard the sound of persons approaching through the gar- 
 den, but it was the voice of men in the street — two slaves 
 coming around the corner and drawing near, speaking some 
 harsh northern dialect which she knew not. As the men 
 approached, she endeavored to shrink out of sight behind a 
 perpendicular projection of the wall, and nearly succeeded. 
 They had passed, indeed, before they noticed her. Then 
 they turned and gazed curiously at her ; and one of them 
 made some remark, apparently of a jesting nature, for they 
 both laughed. Then again they turned and moved on out 
 of sight withbut attempting .further molestation. 
 
 But the incident alarmed her, and caused her to realize 
 yet more vividly than before the exceeding unprotectedness 
 of her situation. These men had not sought to injure her, 
 
 10* 
 
226 ^NONE. 
 
 but how could she answer for the next who might ap- 
 proach ? It was a lonely, dark street, narrow, and com- 
 paratively seldom used, and but little built upon, being 
 mainly flanked by garden walls. Upon the side where she 
 sat there were no buildings at all, excepting low prison- 
 houses for slaves, similar to that belonging to the Vanno 
 palace — for the street ran along an inner slope of the 
 Ccelian Mount and parallel to the Triumphal Way, and thus 
 naturally served as a rear boundary to the gardens of the 
 palaces and villas which fronted upon the latter avenue. 
 This very loneliness, therefore, added to her insecurity ; for 
 though it was possible that no one else might pass by for 
 hours, there was the equal chance that if any one came 
 with evil intent, she might be murdered before help could 
 be summoned. And' at a time when the broadest streets 
 were never entirely safe even for armed men, a weak 
 woman, with tempting jewelry upon her person, might well 
 shudder at being left alone in a narrow alley. 
 
 Slowly and painfully — ^for the night was cool, and she 
 had now been sittiiig long in one position — ^none raised 
 herself and stood up, looking hither and thither for some 
 place of refuge. She had now waited more than an hour, 
 and if her lord had been inclined to recall her from her ex- 
 clusion, his repentance would scarcely have tarried so long. 
 
 His anger was generally fierce, but of short duration ; 
 could it be that in this case his sense of injury was so 
 great as to make him more unreasoning than usual ? Her 
 heart sank yet lower with a new weight of despair ; but 
 again hope whispered alleviation. He had been drinking 
 deeply — she said to herself — and had not clearly compre- 
 
^NONB. 227 
 
 hended what' he had done. And afterwards he had proba- 
 bly forgotten all about it, and had fallen off into sleep. 
 Upon the morrow he would be himself again. Perhaps he 
 would not then remember the outrage he had committed 
 against her. Certainly his anger would not still burn when 
 corrected by returning reason. She must therefore en- 
 deavor to gain access again to the palace, and there avoid 
 his presence, until the morrow brought to him fresher re- 
 flection and a better inclination to listen to explanation. 
 And accordingly she commenced her departure for her 
 hiding-place, and slowly crept along the - blank flanking 
 wall of the little street, hoping soon to gain the palace 
 front. At first it seemed a very easy thing to do so. 
 Though she had never before been in that portion of the 
 city, she knew enough of its geography to feel certain 
 that if she followed, the street- in either direction, she 
 could not fail to come to some intersecting alley, through 
 which she might reach the Triumphal Way. Once there, 
 the route was familiar to her, and she could arrive at her 
 home ii a few minutes. But as she advanced, she found 
 that what had appeared to be an easy stroll, seemed con- 
 verted into a toilsome and perplexing journey. Confused 
 and terrified, the coolness necessary to pursue in safety even 
 so short a route began to fail her. At times she imagined 
 that she heard strangers approaching, and then it became 
 needful to conceal herself again, as well as she could, be- 
 hind projections or in recesses of the wall. Then, when 
 once more venturing out, the shadows of the wall itself or 
 of neighboring buildings would terrify her into seeking 
 other concealments. And once, after having resumed her 
 
228 ^ N N E . 
 
 course, she discovered that she had mistaken the direction, 
 and was retracing her stfeps. 
 
 At last, after a journey of nearly an hour, during which 
 she had only advanced as far Us a resolute person might 
 have gone in a few minutes, she reached an intersecting 
 street leading to the Triumphal Way. It was a wider 
 passage than that which she was leaving, and this fact 
 added to her dismay. For though she had at first feared 
 the narrower street for its loneliness, yet now that she had 
 so far glided through it in safety, she had begun to feel 
 somewhat reassured, and in turn dreaded the more open 
 channels, since they would naturally be more frequented. 
 It was, therefore, with new trepidation that,^ upon turning 
 the corner, she saw, in the broader street before her, signs 
 of movement and life. The street happened to be a fa- 
 vorite thoroughfare from the Triumphal Way, across the 
 Coelian Mount, and, in consequence, was never, perhaps, 
 entirely deserted. Now that the whole city was throbbing 
 with anticipations of the morrow's festivities, there were 
 more persons wakeful and wandering about with feverish 
 expectation than usual. Moreover, it was a street which 
 abounded with drinking-shops, and these were now all 
 open, in spite of the lateness of the hour, and appeared to 
 be thronged with customers. One of these shops stood upon 
 the corner where jEnone had halted. A faint light burned 
 over the doorway to mark the locality ; and through the 
 open passage she could see a crowd of ill-conditioned, 
 rough-looking men, appearing, in the dim light, more rough 
 and uncouth than they really were. Here were mingled 
 together artisans of the lower orders, slaves and profes- 
 
^NONB. 229 
 
 sional gladiators, all drinking and singing together in 
 close fraternity. For a moment ^none paused and hesi- 
 tated, not daring to pass on. If she could reach the fur- 
 ther side without attracting observation, it would be but 
 one step gained, for there were many other drinking-shops 
 glimmering in the distance along the whole street, and 
 each one had its special crowd of noisy customers. To 
 escape one peril seemed only to run into another. Then, 
 as she deliberated and alternately put her foot forward and 
 withdrew it again in a fruitless attempt to muster courage 
 to run the gauntlet, two men emerged from the wine-shop, 
 and staggered towards her — a slave and' a gladiator, linked 
 arm in arm, and singing a wild song in discordant keys. 
 ~Both appeared to be under the influence of wine, though in 
 different degrees ; for while the former had set no bounds 
 to his license, the latter had somewhat restrained his pro- 
 ■pensities, in view of the demands upon his strength which 
 the morrow's work would surely make. Seeing these men 
 reel towards her, ^none turned and fled, without knowing, 
 or, for the moment, caring, in which direction she went. 
 The men had not at first seen her, but, as they now caught 
 sight of her flying figure, they set up a drunken whoop, 
 and attempted to follow. All in vain ; for ere they had 
 advanced many paces, their weakened limbs betrayed 
 them, and they sank powerless upon the ground, and, 
 forgetting the pursuit, rolled over lovingly in each other's 
 arms. Meanwhile, Mnone, not daring to look back, and 
 not knowing that the chase had- ended, still fled in wild 
 terror, until at last her breath failed her, and she tottered 
 helplessly into the shade of the nearest wall. 
 
230 ^ N N E . 
 
 She was bow lost, indeed. How long she had been run- 
 ning, or in which direction, how many divergencies she had 
 taken, or how many narrow alleys threaded, she knew not. 
 She simply realized that she was in a portion of the city 
 where she had never been before, and from which extrica- 
 tion seemed impossible, so dark and narrow and winding 
 seemed the passages in every direction. Par narrower 
 and darker, indeed, than the lane behind the palace, and 
 without its protecting solitude. In place of high garden 
 walls, the whole route seemed lined with miserable tene- 
 ments, the refuge of the lowest of the Roman population. 
 There, crowded together in close communication, were the 
 rabble of poorer slaves and beggars, all equally marked 
 with rags and filth. 
 
 In all this there was one comfort. However thronged 
 the tenements along the side might be, the street itself 
 seemed deserted, nor could Mnone any longer hear the 
 sound of pursuit. That, at least, she had escaped, and 
 now again she took partial courage as she reflected that 
 with moderate caution she might yet be able to extricate 
 herself There must be some outlet to that neighborhood 
 of squalid misery ; and take whichever way she might, she 
 could scarcely fail, at the end, to emerge into some more 
 reputable region. 
 
 Again the sound of two persons approaching restrained 
 her, and caused her to shrink into a corner until they 
 might pass. Unlike the others, these men had not been 
 drinking, but advanced gravely and steadily, with a slow, 
 deliberate pace, indicative of weighty reflection. These, 
 also, were slaves ; and before they emerged into sight from 
 
^NONE. 231 
 
 the surrounding darkness, ^uone could distinctly mark the 
 low, plotting whisper with which they spoke, occasionally 
 rising, from excess of emotion, into a louder key. As they 
 came opposite to her, they paused — not seeing her, but 
 simply seeming to be arrested by the vehemence of their 
 debate ; and again their words sank nearly into a whisper. 
 
 " Tell me why I should not do so 1" hissed the nearest, 
 a man of gigantic proportions and development of strength. 
 " Why should I not leap out of the arena where these men 
 place me to play a fool's part ; and scrambling over the 
 ranges of seats, plunge this dagger into his heatt? Ye 
 gods I were I once to begin to clamber up, no force could 
 stop me from reaching him, were he at the very topmost 
 range ! And I will — why not ?" 
 
 " You would gain but an instant's revenge," said the 
 other, striving to soothe him, " and you would lose — " 
 
 " What ? My life would you say ?" retorted the first. 
 " I know it. I know well that before I could strike him 
 thrice, I would myself be beaten down a corpse. But one 
 blow from me would be sufficient for him. Ay, though I 
 used not my knife at all, but only my hardened fist. Would 
 it not be a fine revenge, say you, thus to kill him ? It was 
 on account of my strength of arm that he laid toils for my 
 capture, and for that alone he most valued me. Why not, 
 then, prove its quality upon himself ? With a single blow 
 I could crush in his proud head like an egg-shell. Then let 
 them kill me — I care not." 
 
 "And yet the life once lost by you cannot be gained 
 again," responded the other. 
 
 " feeble-minded !" said the first, with disdain. " Have 
 
232 iENONB. 
 
 I ever so dearly cared for life that I should thus guard it at 
 the expense of honor ? While I was a free man, in my na- 
 tive Rhodes, with my wife and children around me, did I 
 not then risk my life among the very first ? And am I 
 likely to value it the more now that I am a slave, with wife 
 torn from me and sent I know not where, with children 
 slain one by one, as the only means of capturing me, with 
 the accursed livery of the arena placed upon me that I may 
 administer to their gaping appetite for blood ? Can all this 
 make me love my life more than I have ever loved it be- 
 fore ?" 
 
 " But wait — only wait. There will come a time — " 
 " Ay, ay ; there will come a time. It is what all say, and 
 will continue to say, and yet the time comes not. There 
 is never any time like the present. All around me are 
 thousands of men, once free and now chained into slavery 
 — and chained, perhaps, more through their own indolence 
 than by the power of their masters ; and yet they lie su- 
 pine, and call upon each other to wait ! And to-morrow 
 there will be a thousand such in the arena, and instead of 
 rising up together in their strength, they will fight only 
 with each other. What might not that thousand accom- 
 plish, were they to act together in brave and earnest re- 
 volt ? What chance would a few hundred pampered prasto- 
 rians have of staying the ffood ? There, seated in fancied 
 security upon their benches, will be the emperor, the court, 
 the nobles, and the most wealthy of the empire. Jn one 
 hour of action, we could sweep these away like chaff, to- 
 gether with all else that is held most worthy of place and 
 power in the whole empire ! And yet these thousand 
 
^NONE. 233 
 
 slaves will not rise up together with me, and it will not 
 be done !" 
 
 The head of the Hercules dropped upon his chest with 
 a gesture of despair. 
 
 " You say truly," responded the other. " It will not be 
 done, for they will not act with you. And what can you 
 do alone ?" 
 
 " Nothing — nothing ; I see it all. I am powerless," mur- 
 mured the first. '.' Well, I will be patient, and dissimulate. 
 I will do as you request, Grorgo. I will restrain myself. 
 As for this man — this imperator — why should I there wreak 
 my vengeance upon him ? It would only be giving to the 
 rest of the people aji unlooked-for sight — a newer pleasure, 
 that is all. " I will therefore act the part of a good and faith- 
 ful slave — will kiss the rod held over me — and will duly 
 serve my master by slaying my adversary, whoever he may 
 be, and thus wiiming that store of gold pieces which have 
 been laid out as the stake of my life. And then — then I 
 will go home to my kennel and my bones. But this I 
 swear, by the immortal gods I that I will follow this man 
 from house to forum, wherever he may go, unt^l I find a 
 proper chance to strike him down in secret like a dog. 
 You were right. I must not lose my life to kill him, when 
 I can so easily slay him and yet live to slay other men as 
 bad as he. My life is for other things. And when the 
 time comes that I can raise the standard of insurrection, 
 will you then — " 
 
 " Then I will be with you heart and soul forever, 
 until our freedom is built up on the ruins of this ac- 
 cursed Rome I" cried the other, striking his hand re- 
 
234 ^NONB. 
 
 Bponsively into the outstretched palm before him. And 
 the two men again took up their walk, and passed on 
 until ,they were swallowed up in the darkness and their 
 voices, growing more and more indistinct, were finally 
 hushed. 
 
^NONE. ■" 23£ 
 
 CHAPTER XVIII. 
 
 Listening intently for a moment longer until every sound 
 of voice or footfall had died away, JEnone once more pre- 
 pared to creep out from her shelter. Most fortunately for 
 her peace, she had not heard all the words that had been 
 spoken before her. But she knew that what she had 
 listened to, was the complaint of two oppressed and over- 
 burdened victims of tyranny, bewailing their ill-deserved 
 lot, and crying aloud for vengeance ; and to her other 
 misery was now added the saddest of all emotions that can 
 beset the human heart, the sense of growing disbelief in 
 any thing good and pure and noble and worth living for 
 in the world. Was it everywhere thus ? Were the rich 
 all purse-proud and cruel and wedded to arrogance and 
 dissipation ? Were the poor always to be cast down into 
 abject hopelessness ? Was the blight of slavery to rest 
 forever upon the lives of thousands, until there was nothing 
 left to them but despair or impotent struggling for impos- 
 sible vengeance ? Were truth and justice wholly banished 
 from the world ? 
 
 Again the narrow street resounded with approaching 
 footsteps, and once more .^none shrank back with terror 
 into her corner. This time it was but one man ; and as he 
 drew near, he commenced in a deep, harsh, broken voice, 
 the chorus of a camp-song. TJnmelodious as was the air 
 
236 iE N O N E . 
 
 and false the rendering, the notes struck upon j33none's ear 
 with a familiar expression that filled her heart with eager 
 hope. That song, indeed, was no novelty. Whole legions 
 had pealed it forth upon the Rhine and the Danube, and 
 there was now scarcely a child in Rome who could not 
 repeat a line or two of it. But still, with a vague expecta- 
 tion of identifying the singer, .^none stood peering out 
 from her shelter with eager attitude and quickened breath ; 
 and as, at the end of the opening strain, her eager ears 
 detected a famililar false quaver, more excited grew her 
 breathing.- And at length, as the man staggering slowly 
 along came into view from out of the surrounding dark- 
 ness, she tottered forth in a transport of wild joj^, and 
 threw herself down before him. 
 
 " My father ! You are here and I am saved !" 
 The centurion paused in stupid amazement. Indeed, he 
 could not have passed on without stumbling over the half- 
 fainting form at his feet. For the moment, startled with 
 the sudden surprise, he could not collect his thoughts ; for, 
 in common with a large proportion of the population of the 
 city, he had been festively celebrating the approaching 
 games, and his ideas were somewhat confused and scat- 
 tered. But, after leaning for a moment upon a short stick 
 which he carried before him, he began somewhat to realize 
 the position of matters. 
 
 By the brazen helmet of Mars !" he growled forth. 
 "What is all this ? You, and at this time of night alone? 
 Speak, JEnone !" 
 
 " And jEnone spoke, clasping his knees as though asking 
 pardon for being turned out of her home and losing her 
 
^NONE. 237 
 
 « 
 
 ■way. Then, when the centurion had heard her story, he 
 swore all his strongest oaths in his very deepest tones and 
 lifted her up. 
 
 "The dastardly caitiff!" he cried. "The double-dyed 
 villain, worse than Jew or Nazarine I He' shall suffer for 
 this 1 ^ Had you been one of his own miserable race, indeed, 
 it would not have mattered s» much, for men will get 
 drunken at times, and will then do things which they will 
 repent of when they are sober again. I myself did once 
 turn out your mother for a night, by reason of some fancied 
 wrong. Ay, and once, when overtaken in my cups, I 
 slew my best friend. Such things will happen ; and as 
 your mother and my friend were no more than my equals, 
 if they were even that, what I did was no disgrace to 
 them. JBut to think of this man, indeed, daring to cast out- 
 from before him, in such insulting manner, a member of 
 the house of Porthenus 1 Now may the gods strike him 
 dead I" 
 
 " Nay, father, he is still — " 
 
 " Forbear ! Still your husband, you would say ! I know 
 that old speech by heart, and how ready all you- wives are 
 to grant forgiveness. And if you were merely his equal 
 in birth, it might be well, perhaps, to do so. But do you 
 not perceive that in acting as he has done, he has not 
 merely ill-treated you, but has insulted the house from 
 which you have sprung ? Ay, not only I, but all of the 
 Portheni, if there should be any of them now left besides 
 ourselves, must feel the indignity. And he shall die for it 1 
 By the gods ! I will strike him to the heart with this dag- 
 ger, won long centuries ago by the founder of our family, 
 
238 ^ N N E . 
 
 4 .... 
 
 from a Carthaginian prince ; and I will leave it standing m 
 the wound, so that all shall know how terribly any of the 
 Portheni can resent an injury I" 
 
 " Nay, nay, my father ; for this time forego any 
 thoughts of vengeance, and be content with taking me 
 to my home again. It will turn out all a mistake, be 
 assured that it will. Take me, therefore, back to my 
 home, and I — " 
 
 " Back to the palace ?" thundered the centurion. " Would 
 you have me to conduct you thither and suffer you to steal 
 in at some low door, like a thief or the lover of a slave, and 
 so appear before him on the morrow with a simper and 
 smile on your lips, as if nothing had happened ? No ! You 
 shall this night repair to my own home ; and when the mor- 
 row comes, I will myself take you back to him in the full 
 blaze of sunlight, and will force him on his knees to ask 
 your pardon for this insult to yourself and fainily, and to 
 beg, with tears, that you will consent to return to him." 
 
 " Let it be to your house, then, my father," said .^none. 
 "Anywhere, so long as I find rest and protection.'' 
 
 And clasping his arm to her breast, and feeling greatly 
 comforted for all her troubles at finding herself once more 
 under sure safeguard, she crept along at his side, ready to 
 be guided by him in all future matters, in the full assurance 
 that he would be kind to her after his rude manner, and 
 that she need scarcely apprehend a rigid fulfilment of his 
 terrible threats against her lord. 
 
 So, for a few moments, they passed along in silence — 
 through that narrow lane into another, equally dark and 
 desolate — thence into a third street, lined with wine-shops 
 
^ N O N E . 239 
 
 ^ * 
 — thence into still another, wider and fronted with neat 
 
 villas — and so on, from turning to turning, through an ap- 
 parently inextricable confusion of passage-ways, until sud- 
 denly the route before them opened wider -and brighter and 
 they stood in the broad area before the Colosseum. 
 
 Mnone could have clapped her hands for joy. Now, in- 
 deed, did she once niore begin to recognize familiar objects. 
 The very same side of the great amphitheatre upon which 
 she had gazed for so many months from her window, was 
 towards her. Looking up, she could even mark, by the 
 gleam of torches carried by some laborers below, the 
 broken cornice at the corner of one of the lower arches ; 
 and she remembered how she had witnessed the cruel chas- 
 tisement of the slave whose awkward management, while 
 hoisting a stone to one of the upper tiers, had led to the 
 mischief. Upon the further hill-slope was the house of 
 the Csesars, stretching across and down into the valley. 
 Furthei: along was the Porum, with its graceful lines of 
 stairways and column-crocwned terraces. And at her left, 
 in distant perspective, stretched the Triumjihal Way. She 
 could almost see where stood her own house ; yes, she 
 could quite see it, for, at that moment, the full moon looked 
 out through a broken rift in the clouds and sent down a 
 shimmer of silver light, brightening up the arches of the 
 amphitheatre, the gilded roof of the Caesars' palace, and the 
 fluted columns of the Forum, and, at the same time, bringing 
 out into full distinctness the two marble fawns which stood, 
 one on each side, at the gateway of the Vanno mansion. 
 To have so much that was familiar to her revealed so sud- 
 denly, was as cheering as the sight of land to the lost and 
 
240 ^NONE. 
 
 bewilderea mariner ; and for the moment -^none felt even 
 happy. 
 
 " My father, I know now where we are. We are nearly 
 home. We have only to go down this passage to the street 
 of Fabius, and then — " 
 
 " And then," muttered the centurion, " we shall be home. 
 But do you think, after all, that it will be best to go on to 
 my bouse, instead of stopping at once at your own ?" 
 
 ^none gazed at him with bewilderment, and her heart 
 sank within her. Many times ere this she had been forced 
 to recognize the readiness with which her father could sur- 
 render high and noble resolves, under the stimulant of base 
 policy ; and she now too surely gathered from his tone of 
 voice and the sidelong manner with which he glanced at 
 her, and even from his unconsciously meanly crouching 
 attitude, that he was once more about to betray his better 
 nature. In fact, the centurion had already begun to repent 
 of his first sudden outburst of angry pride ; and while they 
 had been walking side by side so silently together, and she 
 had been gaining new courage and confidence, lie had been 
 slowly reasoning his kindly impulses away and allowing all 
 the selfislrtiess of his nature to regain its control. To be 
 sure, Jjinone had been wronged — he reflected — but not a 
 day ever passed during which such matters did not occur, 
 and it were best not to be too morbidly sensitive about 
 them. The imperator had been drinking deeply ; what 
 then ? Why, on the morrow he would be sober again and 
 would forget all about it. The house of Vanno was beneath 
 the house of Porthenus, to be sure ; but^then it had lands, 
 and palaces, and slaves by the hundred, while the Portheni 
 
iE N N E . 241 
 
 had nothing to boast of but their past grandeur, and even 
 this now seemed to be forgotten by all but themselves. 
 They could not live on these recollections alone. And then 
 the centurion thought of his own paltry office and what he 
 should do if he were to lose it, by becoming embroiled with 
 the powerful imperator ; and he also thought of the many 
 gold pieces he had from time to time carried out from the 
 Vanno palace, thanks to the filial charity of its mistress. 
 
 " You should know," he continued in an apologetic tone, 
 " I have been thinking the matter over anew, and perhaps 
 it were better that you should come before him in the morn- 
 ing as though nothing of especial moment had occurred." 
 
 " As you please," she murmured, and half withdrew her 
 hand from his. For though, being far from desirous of ob- 
 taining any violent and compelled restoration to her rights, 
 she would, from the very first, have preferred the more quiet 
 reconciliation now suggested, yet she could not fail to feel 
 that her father had proposed the change not as much from a 
 regard for her as from some selfish motive of his own. 
 
 "And, Mnone," he faltered forth^ "you had better forbear 
 telling him that I had brought you home. Let him rather 
 think that you had found the way yourself." 
 
 " You think — is it wrong, therefore, that a father 
 should have rescued his child from almost certain death?" 
 she responded, with increased bitterness of disappoint- 
 ment. 
 
 " Nay, I mean nothing wrong. But these quarrels be- 
 tween a man and wife, — surely it is best that no one else 
 should be mingled in them. He might be angry if I did 
 
 so ; and tien, what might become of me ? And, jEnone, 
 
 11 
 
242 ^NONB. 
 
 what if he had had a right to be angry with you, — a little 
 angry, only, of course ? Not that you could wilfully do 
 any wrong ; but at times we all unwittingly commit ac- 
 tions which others could not approve of. And if this 
 handsome slave of yours, — you would not love him, of 
 course, but there are many Roman women who would not 
 refuse some innocent and playful intimacy for the moment, 
 — a kiss upon the lips or a pressure of the hand — and we 
 are all weak, you know, and — Nay, nay, I did not say that 
 it was at all true ; only, if it had been — " . 
 
 He stopped, for he felt that her eye was upon him — not 
 in anger, but in a strange puzzled doubt as to his meaning, 
 mingled with surprise that he should thus speak to her. 
 His words were plain enough, but might there not have 
 been some other sense attached to them than that which 
 first appeared ? It seemed, too, impossible that his selfish 
 consideration for himself should lead him to justify neglect 
 of her by imputations of wrong conduct. The moon had 
 again passed under a cloud, shutting out from sight palace 
 and temple ; and the centurion could not catch her expres- 
 sion, but could merely see the outline of her form standing 
 before him with the face upraised. But he felt that there 
 was a look upon her features which, if well studied, must 
 abash him, and he himg his head with the consciousness of 
 shame. 
 
 " My father, what is it that you mean ?" she said. 
 
 " Nay, nothing, my child," he muttered. And he rnade 
 some feeble attempt to remove from her mind the evil im- 
 pression which he had already produced. But in the end 
 he only deepened it ; for .while disclaiming any meaning of 
 
^ N N E . 243 
 
 ill, he seemed, by some perversion of his faculties, to repeat 
 in another form the disparaging thought to which he had 
 first given expression,— alternately mumbling words of self- 
 accusation and denial, and then returning to ^ his original 
 idea and treating it as a matter of little consequence and 
 to be leniently considered. What if such and such a thing 
 had actually happened ? What if in some moment of re- 
 sentment at her lord's neglect of her, she had been tempted 
 into unguarded levities ? This, after all, was no great sin, 
 judged from the standard of all around her ; and while so 
 many women of noble birth were daily guilty of worse, 
 surely she should not greatly reproach herself for moment- 
 ary forgetfulness, nor take offence at being spoken to about 
 it. But none the less, of course, would the imperator be 
 privileged to feel incensed upon discovering the - fact ; and 
 none the less would he vent his anger upon any one who 
 should come between him and his indignation. 
 
 '' It were be^t, then," the centurion repeated, " that 
 you should not mention how I had met you and guided you 
 home." 
 
 " Can it be that you believe me guilty of this thing ?" 
 ^none exclaimed, beginning more fully to realize the im- 
 port of his words. 
 
 " Guilty ? No, not so, my child," he responded. " But if 
 so — not that I could believe it ; but if so — " 
 
 And then again he ran on in the old train of thought, 
 which, having once possessed his mind, could not thence- 
 forth be ejected. The supposition which he had at first en- 
 tertained as a mere passing excuse for his selfish avoidance 
 of her interests, now, as he more doggedly fastened upon it. 
 
244 ^ N O N E . 
 
 began to be sustained by his suspicious nature as a truth, 
 and he could not shake it ofP. Camp life and low company 
 had made him naturally distrustful. Was it likely, after 
 all, that the imperator should have thus acted, without 
 proof? And how was ^none so different from others, that 
 she should be immaculate ? 
 
 JEnone read his doubts and hesitation. The tears gushed 
 from her eyes, and her whole strength and power of resist- 
 ance broke down with a wild sob. She had never^ thought 
 that it could come to this. Even the rough suspicion of 
 her lord she had tried to pardon in her heart, saying to her- 
 self that he had been drinking much wine and knew not 
 what he was doing, and that possibly, from her neglect of 
 appearances, she had innocently given him cause for sus- 
 picion. But that her father could thus coolly weigh to- 
 gether in his mind the chances of her guilt and innocence, 
 with a lurking doubt in favor of the former, could treat it 
 as a thing to be but little grieved over, and then, instead 
 of taking her to his heart, should be so moved by selfish 
 apprehension as not only to refuse her an entrance into his 
 house, but also to withhold his open countenance and pro- 
 tection from her, choosing rather to let her bear the weight 
 of all coming tribulatiens alone, — this was a blow beneath 
 which it seemed as though her nature, until then sustained 
 by hope and the consciousness of innocence, must at last 
 break down. 
 
 "I will go home," she said, with a wail of despair. 
 ?'What have I ever done that these misfortunes should 
 come upon me ? But I will go home. My lord can but 
 drive me out again. And if he does, it will be no more than 
 
-aENONE. 245 
 
 what I have already borne. Come not with me. The moon 
 will be out again Soon ; and besides, I know the way. I 
 would rather go alone. He might see you from a distance, 
 and then might reproach you for having aided your own 
 child when she was in trouble." 
 
 " Not so,"-said the centurion, repenting with shame. " I 
 will go with you. Stay but a moment." And he strove to 
 detain her by her robe. But she eluded his grasp, and ere 
 he could pursue her, they were separated still further by a 
 crowd of men, who, in disorderly array, dashed in between. 
 At their head was one of the most celebrated gladiators of 
 the day, and the most favored by the public ; and those 
 who followed were his friends and devoted admirers, who, 
 seeing him patrolling the streets, had joined in his train, 
 gathering accessions at every corner, until the concourse 
 was numbered by hundreds, all leaping and screaming in 
 their efforts to get nearer to the grand idol of the arena. 
 And when the crowd had passed on and the centurion 
 looked for ^none, she was not to be seen. 
 
 He, a man of sturdy muscle, and armed with his short 
 dagger, had escaped without much difSculty ; but with 
 ^none it was different. At first, borne along by the im- 
 petuous torrentjShe had maintained a position upon the out- 
 skirts of the gladiator's train, but as it increased in volume, 
 she found herself insensibly mingled with it. To pause 
 was to be trodden under foot, — to plead for release and 
 urge her weakness was to be treated with derision ; there 
 was but one recourse,- and that was to still follow the drift- 
 ing of the -mob, and trust to the chance of gradual extrica- 
 tion. 
 
246 ^NONE. 
 
 t 
 
 And so, for a moment or two longer, she was hurried 
 along with the current, foot-sore and weary, but still with- 
 out attracting especial observation. Then an Ethiopian 
 slave alongside took notice of her, at first with curiosity, 
 and then with greed as he marked the gold rings in her 
 ears, and the pin upon her bosom ; and seeing that she 
 appeared unprotected, he watched his opportunity and 
 roughly tore away one of the former. Another slave upon 
 the other side witnessed the action, and sprang forward to 
 obtain his share of the spoils. And in an instant .iEuone 
 found herself the centre of a writhing mass of men, each 
 wrestling with those around him in an attempt to obtain a 
 share in the common robbery. 
 
 At last she was alone again. In some manner, during 
 the strife over her, she had been thrown towards the out- 
 side of the mass, and there been abandoned, every thing 
 valuable having been stripped from her person. Rings, 
 bracelets, and all the ornaments usually worn by a Roman 
 woman of high rank had been torn from her, and she found 
 herself lying faint and weary at the foot of a flight of white 
 marble steps leading upward to the portico of a newly 
 finished temple. 
 
 Raising herself with difficulty, she strove to discern her 
 location, but without success. That she -had not been left 
 long to herself was evident, for the screams and yells of the 
 gladiator's retinue, as it passed into the distance, could yet 
 be heard. But how far she had come during that struggle, 
 or in which direction, was all a mystery to her. At a dis- 
 tance she could faintly see the towering ellipse of the new 
 amphitheatre, but it was from a point of view which was 
 
-E N O N B . 247 
 
 not familiar to her. All appearance of palace. Forum, or 
 broad Appian Way was now lost. 
 
 There were yet two courses left open to her. One was 
 to make another attempt to reach her home ; and she saw 
 that with time and strength she could perhaps do so. She 
 had only to walk forward to the amphitheatre, never losing 
 sight of it, and when she reached the base to creep around 
 its walls until she came to the side with which she was 
 familiar, and from whence she could see the broad street 
 leading to the Vanno palace. But what certainty of suc- 
 ceeding could she have, even in such a short and simple 
 route ? New dangers would be sure to rise at every step, 
 for, however feasible her plans might seem to be, some 
 cruel' fate would be sure to intervene. The other course 
 was the sad one of lying upon that cold white step, and 
 there, if possible, yielding up her life. Wearied and 
 bruised in body, and more cruelly tortured in mind, and not 
 knowing how strongly the spirit will cling to earth even 
 amid the harshest adve^-sities, it seemed to her that it would 
 not only be easy to stay there and die, but thatit would be 
 a pleasant and joyful thing to do so. How calmly would 
 her soul pass away in the soft glow of that pure moonlight, 
 now again pouring down through the broken rifts of cloiid ! 
 How eagerly could she fly away from the ills and troubles 
 of life to the refuge of the tomb I Gradually sinking back 
 and gazing up at the snow-white columns which, in pure 
 and chaste Corinthian beauty, rose like light vestal sisters 
 above her head, all aglow with the pleasant contrasts of 
 light and shade which dwelt in cornice and capital and 
 delicately wrought fluting, she felt a strange and unwonted 
 
248 ' ^ N N E . 
 
 serenity and peace of mind creeping over her, and gently 
 closed her eyes with the sweet belief that her life was 
 at last really passing away. 
 
 In was not the grasp of death, however, but merely the 
 kindly soft touch of sleep resting upon her, for the weari- 
 ness to which her body had been subjected now at length 
 compelled repose. Therefore the troubled thoughts which 
 had beset hor, one by one fled away, and her eyelids 
 closed, and bright dreams began to wing their way down 
 to her, and she was about to fall into as gentle a slumber 
 as ever she had enjoyed in her own bed at home, when a 
 new alarm startled her into wakefulness. 
 
 Another crowd of midnight wanderers was heard ap- 
 proaching ; and, in a moment more, turned the corner into 
 sight. It was no popular gladiator which attracted them, 
 but a huge box or van upon wheels. This was the travel- 
 ling cage of some choice animal from Africa, arriving at a 
 late period for participation in the games. As the great 
 van, drawn by eight horses, rolled onward towards the 
 amphitheatre, into one of the cells of which the beast would 
 be thrown for a few. hours' seclusion, the crowd pressed 
 eagerly around it, giving responsive yells to each sullen 
 roar which came from within. 
 
 ^none stood at the lower step of the portico and 
 watched the passage of the crowd. Fully awakened, sho 
 knew now that she was not destined to die yet, but that 
 she must again strive to set out upon her homeward route 
 as soon as this new concourse should have passed. In a 
 moment more the way would have been clear, when sud- 
 denly, either from the movement of the horses or from the 
 
is N N E . 249 
 
 pressure of the crowd, -the van slid off from its wheeled 
 platform and rolled over upon its side. A louder roar 
 burst from within, — the word flew about the startled con- 
 course that the terrified beast was escaping, — men frantic- 
 ally rushed hither and thither in their struggle to evade 
 the impending danger, — numbers of them fled to the portico 
 of the temple as apparently the safest place, — and ^none, 
 with the instinct of life yet strong within her, caught the 
 contagion of flight, staggered up the steps, and between 
 the columns into the interior, and thence, not staying her 
 course, passed to the, other end of the building and fell 
 fainting upon the pavement. 
 
 11* 
 
250 ^NONE. 
 
 CHAPTEE XIX. 
 
 Upon a pedestal at the further end of the interior was 
 placed a marble statue of Ceres, in whose honor the temple 
 had been erected. The goddess stood delicately poised, 
 with one foot slightly extended. In her arms were the 
 stalks of corn, and in her hair the fruitful garlands 
 typical of autumnal plenty. The head was balanced upon 
 the shoulders with an air of satisfied serenity, and partially 
 inclined forward, so that the gaze would rest upon the 
 ground at the distance of a few feet in advance. Peace 
 and benignity shone upon the features, mingled with a 
 certain reflective expression of tender solicitude, as though 
 the sculptor had intended to represent her in the act of com- 
 passionating the many, who, through poverty or neglect, 
 seldom attained her bounties. -At the base of the pedestal 
 glimmered a small bronze lamp with three wicks, casting a 
 faint glow upon the marble and enriching its surface with 
 changing beauties of light and shade, as the jets of flame 
 flickered with the drifting currents of the night air. 
 
 This light now also shone upon Maone, who, with torn 
 garments, lay upon the marble pavement in front of the 
 statue, and in the very spot where the glance of its bended 
 face might be supposed to rest. There was therefore, for 
 the moment, a peculiar significance in that compassionate 
 gaze, for it seemed to speak of the solicitude of the goddess, 
 
^NONE. 251 
 
 not merely for distant classes of unknown dependants, but 
 rather for one immediate, present, and living sufferer thrown 
 in agony at her feet. This would have been the natural 
 interpretation given by one ha-?ing suflScient art and 
 imagination to combine the living figure and the marble 
 statue into one group. And it would scarcely have seemed 
 surprising or unnatural, if the goddess, in her compassion 
 for the helpless victim, should have wrought a miracle and 
 become incarnate, for the purpose of bestowing divine 
 ministration upon her. 
 
 And -^none needed help. It was not mere fatigue that 
 had now overcome her, nor was the insensibilitj' into which 
 she had fallen, at all like the sweet calm sleep which, a few 
 moments before, had been on the point of visiting her. 
 Bruised and suffering, she was now the prey of a deathlike 
 stupor, in which the present was blotted out only ta give 
 place to hideous images that revelled in her troubled 
 dreams and threatened to destroy the whole balance of her 
 mind. Weariness and fright and mental torture seemed at 
 last about to complete their work, and to summon to her 
 relief that death which she had before wished for in vain. 
 
 But while she lay upon the cold pavement, with one arm 
 thrown behind her head, and moaned with anguish, a single 
 figure appeared crouching at the temple door. Slowly he 
 ventured in, turning his head this side and that, as though 
 dreading interruption, and so glided further and further 
 into the building. Then, seeing the insensible form of 
 .^none at the foot of the statue, he advanced at a quicker 
 pace, and taking up the little bronze lamp, held it closely 
 over her, And at the next moment, uttering an exclama- 
 
252 3E N N B . 
 
 tion of joy, he dropped the lamp, and lifting ^none, 
 clasped her in his arms. The lamp rolled awaj' from him 
 and the lights went out, but he did not heed that. He 
 needed no further light, for he had found what he sought. 
 
 " Jjlnone, — my own ^none I" he cried. " Said I not 
 true ? We did not part forever, and now the gods have 
 brought us together again I" 
 
 " Who calls ?" she murmured. "And where am I ?" 
 
 " In safety, .iEnone ; with one who will protect you 
 henceforth for life, — with Cleotos !" 
 
 "Ah, Cleotos — my brother !" she whispered. 
 
 " More than a brother now, jEnone I But let us leave 
 this place at once." 
 
 " This place ? What is it ?" she said ; and she raised 
 her head and looked around. Then, as she felt the chill of 
 a great building enveloping her and saw the dim outline of 
 the marble goddess bending over from above, her recol- 
 lection slowly began to return. 
 
 "Yes, — I know it all now," she said. " I came into the 
 temple, — I was weary and frightened and I took refuge here. 
 And you have come to deliver me. Yes, we will go out 
 from here. But not yet, for I am sick and bruised. Let me 
 rest awhile." 
 
 "Yes, we will rest awhile," he said ; and he looked 
 about him for some place of greater security. For they 
 were not safe as they sat directly in front of the statue. 
 They might be seen by any stranger who chanced to enter. 
 
 And if any one passed and saw that the lamps were ex- 
 
 « 
 tinguished, search might be made for the author of the prof- 
 anation ; and whoever was found in the building might be 
 
iENONE. 253 
 
 accused of it, and it would not be well to be dragged 
 before some priestly tribunal for such a thing as that. 
 
 There was an opening in the rear wall. Clootos remem- 
 bered having seen it but a week ago, though then he knew 
 not whither it led. Now, placing ^none gently down, and 
 bidding her be of good courage until his return, he groped 
 along -the sides and rear of the building until he foundthc 
 place. It was an aperture of small size, "being only about 
 three feet wide and four feet high, and Cleotos feared lest 
 it might lead only to some inner recess of no great utility 
 as a place of concealment. But to his delight, he dis- 
 covered, upon passing through the opening, that there was 
 a turning to the right, and here his foot struck upon a 
 stone step. It was the commencement of a flight leading 
 upward — how far he could not tell. But it was sufficient for 
 his purpose that he had found a place of temporary con- 
 cealment, for, by ascending a very few steps, he would not 
 only be Out of sight but also out of hearing. Eeturning, 
 therefore, to where he had left JEnone, he lifted her gently 
 in his arms and bore her within the recess. There, ascend- 
 ing several of the steps, he sat down upon one of them 
 and ^placed her beside him with her head upon his 
 shoulder. 
 
 ■" Now for a few minutes we can talk together,'' he said. 
 " The gods be thanked that I did not at once take the route 
 to Ostia. For this, at least, I owe them gratitude, since, 
 by putting it into my heart to linger around, they have for 
 once given happiness to a poor and lowly man. See, dear 
 jEnone 1 Here is your ring which you gave me, and here 
 is the gold. I have not used either. Your commands were 
 
254 ^NONE. 
 
 that I. should at once fly to .Ostia ; but something told me 
 that you would need me yet, and so I tarried." 
 
 " Did you then see me at the garden gate ?" she said. 
 " And why not, therefore, have come to me before ?" 
 
 "I did not tarry at the gate' for what should you be 
 doing there ? But I stole around to the front of the palace, 
 and there I waited. Yet nothing happened. I saw the 
 guests go away and the lights one by one extinguished ; 
 and gradually all became silent. Then, feeling happy 
 that I had at least watched over you for an hour, I came 
 away." 
 
 " And why not, after that, have commenced your 
 journey?" she said. "Do you not know that it was 
 intended to have thrown you to the lions ? That you are 
 even yet in danger, dear Cleotos ? Oh, go now. Stay not 
 for me." 
 
 " Nay, I will not now go alone," he said. " But I will 
 confess that having watched over ycm for that little while, I 
 believed that no harm had come to you, and, with this cheer- 
 ing assurance, began my journey. But then it seemed to me 
 as though all Eome were awake. Wherever I went, I met 
 crowds of men, and in one place a concourse of heated 
 revellers forced me to turn back with them and join their 
 ranks. Then they surrounded the cage of a wild beast 
 just entering the city, and still drew me along in their 
 train. And as they passed this temple, the cage upset, and 
 among the flying crowd I saw a figure in white upon the 
 portico steps. What possessed me at that sight to think 
 of you, — what made me see in that torn and dishevelled 
 form you whom I believed to be resting in your own 
 
^NONE. 255 
 
 home, — ^how can I tell ? A turn of the head, perhaps, — or 
 a gesture of the body as you flew up the steps! I know not 
 what it was ; but something spoke the truth to my heart, 
 and it beat quickly, and I stole back from where I had fled 
 away, and coming in, I found you. And you, ^none ?" 
 
 "He has driven me away," she said in a low voice; 
 "But it was, all a mistake. Something or somebody has 
 made him hate me for the moment. He will forget it all 
 t6-morrow, when he sees me agairu," 
 
 " He shall not see you again," exclaimed Oleotos. 
 "Henceforth you are mine alone, and we will share each 
 other's lot forever." 
 
 He spoke calmly and deliberately — ^not as one who makes 
 a mighty resolve and anticipates opposition to be over- 
 come, but as one who mentions a fact about which there 
 can be no controversy, and regarding which no doubt can 
 arise. Never for a moment since he had entered the temple 
 and found -^none stretched senseless upon the pavement, 
 had he doubted that thenceforth their destinies were linked 
 together. Nor was it unnatural that he should so believe. 
 He knew from the first that she must have been driven 
 from her lord's house, though the time and manner of the 
 act were still a mystery to him. But by the act itself, how- 
 ever done, he felt that ^none had become free again. It 
 was as though Sergius, by withdrawing his protection, had 
 restored liberty of will and action to her — giving her, as it 
 were, a sort of informal divorce. In this light he believed 
 that even the law would regard the matter, and that no fault 
 
 9 
 
 would be found with whatever might be her subsequent 
 conduct. Since, therefore, she was thus rendered free, 
 
256 ^NONE. 
 
 upon whom should she more naturally lean for protection 
 than upon that earliest and best friend, her childhood's 
 lover ? She had loved him once ; and now that every bar 
 seemed removed, she could certainly do so again. Had not 
 the Fates led them together again after two pai-tings, as 
 though it was forecfrdained that they should never more be 
 separated ? 
 
 But the first word that Mnone spoke in response dissi- 
 pated that pleasant dream. She had hitherto paid but faint 
 and listless attention to what he said — ^listening to his words 
 simply for their tone of kind and brotherly interest, and 
 without reflecting comprehensively upon their true mean- 
 ing. But now that he expressed himself so much more 
 openly, the light began to dawn upon her, and she felt that 
 she must at once correct the mistake into which his^ hopes 
 had betrayed him. 
 
 " Speak not thus, Cleotos," she cried. " That can never 
 be. I must go home." 
 
 " And your home is with me alone," he faltered forth, 
 turning pale with apprehension. " Where else can it be, in- 
 deed ?" 
 
 " Where else but with my lord ?" she said. " Oh, Cleotos, 
 cherish no longer these vain hopes, or I shall begin to 
 regret that our last parting was not the final one, and that 
 your fate has brought you hither, were it even to my own. 
 rescue. Speak no further, therefore, of what you have in 
 your heart. Let your thoughts rest there unuttered ; and 
 only strive, as a friend and brother, to have me restored to 
 my own home." 
 
 " From which you have been cast out 1" he responded, 
 
iS N O N B . 257 
 
 -with bitterness. "And you would return thither, to be 
 again ejected, perhaps I Where is your pride that you 
 should suffer this ?" 
 
 " I have no pride," she answered. " It may be that I 
 ought to feel it, and that most others in my place would do 
 so, but I cannot. There is but one thought in my heart— to 
 make my peace again, though I may be obliged to win it 
 through deep abasement and by imploring pardon for doing 
 what I have not done, trusting to the calmer reflections of 
 the future for my justification. . Nor, if I had the pride which 
 you desire to' see in me, would it profit- you. Would you 
 wish that I should come to you simply because my affection 
 had been outraged, and that I must therefore contract new 
 ties in order to show my resentment and my indifference to 
 the former ones ? Would my presence in such a state of 
 heart' be pleasing to you ? Would such a motive prove a 
 suificient substitute for that calm, trusting love which alone 
 should have power to bring me to you ?" 
 
 " But surely you would love me, Mnone. You loved me 
 once." 
 
 " Yes, once I felt for you the love of a young and inex- 
 perienced girl. Whether or not that was the' real love 
 which the heart craves, I cannot now say. It is sufficient 
 that it is gone, and gone forever, Cleotos. Were I really 
 free, — were I to know that I could never look upon my lord 
 again, even then that former love for you could not return. 
 Be. content, therefore, to be my brother alone.'' 
 
 He knew' now how hopeless he must remain. But still 
 he could not refrain from speaking further. 
 
 "Yes, I see it all now, JEnone. You never had for me 
 
258 iSNONE. 
 
 more than a young girl's fancy. You gave your real love 
 to this man who has treated you like a plaything and now 
 has cast you out. And worse than all- that, you still love 
 him." 
 
 " I still love him, indeed," she said. " Whether it be 
 right or wrong, I cannot tell, J}ut my heart whispers to me 
 that I must yet cling to him. It is woman's lot, I suppose, 
 ever to sacrifice herself for some one person or thing ; and 
 though she may mistake the object and find her devotion 
 unrewarded or received with dull appreciation, she cannot 
 easily disunite herself from the old enchantment. Better 
 for her happiness that she should remain self-deceived, than 
 that she should fall away and try to stand alone. I know 
 all that you would say to me ; — that I have been cast out, 
 ill-treated, and suspected of wrongs which I would not ad- 
 mit even into my thoughts, — that my lord has perhaps taken 
 his love from me never to restore it, — and that I may never 
 henceforth receive from him any thing but scorn and neg-, 
 lect. All this I can sometimes feel. Nay, when I consult 
 my judgment and coolly dare to weigh the merits of the 
 case as a strong-minded man might do, I may still more 
 freely admit the truth of all you. tell me. But when I let 
 my judgment pass aside, and, instead thereof, consult my 
 heart alone, it speaks softly and pleasantly to me in other ' 
 strains. It tells me that if my lord has acted harshly 
 towards me, he has done so in hasty passion and not in 
 cool reflection, — and that, it maybe, he has even now re- 
 pented of it. It tells me that he has been angry with me 
 because I have unwittingly aroused his jealousy. It tells 
 me that all which he has seen amiss in my conduct can be 
 
^ N O N E . 259 
 
 explained, and that, perhaps, the evil influences which now 
 surround him may some day lose their charm, and he be 
 led back again to love me as before. You wish that I may 
 be happy, dear Cleotos ? What, then, do you advise me 
 to do ? Shall I henceforth trust to my judgment or to my 
 heart?" 
 
 " To your heart— to your heart alone !" he responded. 
 "It may be less true than your judgment, but why seek 
 for -truth when it' brings unhappiness with it ? Better be 
 deceived, if thereby any of the pain of life may be stifled. 
 And this gift of self-deception which women have in so 
 much greater degree than men — what is it, after all, but 
 a gift from the gods, and one which should not be despised, 
 since it enables them to gild with delusive fancy so many 
 ills which they have not the natural strength to vanquish ? 
 Dear iEhone, I will accept my fate and speak to you no 
 more about love." 
 
 "Thanks, dear Cleotos, my brother. And now, let us 
 prepare to leave this place, for I am somewhat rested, and 
 by leaning on your shoulder can easily walk. Once more 
 I bid you farewell. See ! I touch you with my lips, for 
 there is no one here to misinterpret the act, and you can- 
 not now misjudge me. So— it is over now — and we will de- 
 scend. Let us hasten, ere the night is past. You will go 
 with me no further than the corner near our garden front. 
 From thence I can find my way alone. And from there, do 
 you hasten to Ostia. Stay not a moment, for you know 
 your fate if you are taken." 
 
 " There is no fate for myself that I dread. Let me only 
 know that you are safe and I will ask nothing further. 
 
260' JE N O N E . 
 
 Now let us hasten, for I fear that already we have talked 
 too long and that daybreak is upon us.'' 
 
 JEnone looked up in affright. It was even so. Already 
 it,seemed as if the dark winding stairway was lighter than 
 when they had entered it, and that a reflection from below 
 had imparted a dull gray to the rough walls. Above, all 
 was black and obscure as before ; but below, in that faint 
 gleam, they could now count the steps which led down to 
 the next turning. Startled with apprehension, Cleotoa 
 clambered down the stairway to make a further obser- 
 vation, half hoping that the faint light he had seen might 
 borne from some artificial cause, rather than from the actual 
 break of day. But the further he descended the brighter 
 grew the passage, and, at the lower turn of the stairs, he 
 saw that the full radiance of morning was pouring in at 
 the opening. Then, more cautiously, he passed the last 
 step, and peering out at the low door, looked through the 
 temple into the street, bright with the full blaze of sun- 
 shine and astir with groups of men in gay festive dresses 
 and noisy with joyful shouts and laughter. 
 
 " It is, indeed, daylight," he said, again ascending to 
 ./Enone. " But what of that ? Is it too late for you to 
 return ?" 
 
 Too late, indeed ; and they both felt that it was so. She 
 was too well known in Rome not to be recognized when- 
 ever she appeared in the open streets ; and for her now to 
 be seen, with torn garments and dishevelled locks and 
 leaning upon the arm' of a sla"ve, would be to give currency 
 to insinuations which would never thenceforth lose their 
 malign effects. Nor was it likely that her lord would be 
 
iE N O N E . 261 
 
 as well disposed towards a reconciliation," if the world at 
 large made evil accusation against her ; for there are few 
 men with sufficient singleness of heart to preserve their 
 love for an object contemned by others, and thereby endure 
 the ridicule of being considered the victims of weak and 
 transparent deception. It was, therefore, all-important that 
 she should contrive some method of return without attract- 
 ing observation ; and if she could succeed in that, and it 
 had thus far chanced that her lord's ejection of her had 
 remained unknown, all might yet be well. And there was 
 the certainty, moreover, that Cleotos could not venture 
 abroad in open dayligl)t withojit bringing sure destruction 
 upon himself. 
 
 " We must stay here till night again comes," she said, 
 after a moment's thought. " Will you grow weary of me, 
 Cleotos, for a few more hours ?" 
 
 " Grow weary of you !" he exclaimed ; and again the 
 impulse came upon him to point out how the Fates had 
 brought them together and would not let them part, and 
 how it was a certain sign that all was meant for the best, 
 and that she should yield to the omen and fly with him. 
 And once more he repressed the thought, for he knew that 
 its expression would not only be useless but ungenerous. 
 
 "We will stay here, then," she said, and it may turn out 
 for good, after all. It may be that my lord will inquire for 
 me when he awakes, and finding me not returned, will 
 become troubled about me. And who can tell but that his 
 anxious thoughts may bring back his love? And then, 
 when night again comes and I return to him, perhaps our 
 reconciliation will be easier and more complete." 
 
262 iE N N B . 
 
 "Yes, we will stay,'' said Cleotos, "but a safer place 
 than this must be found. At any moment some straggler 
 in the temple, drawn hither by curiosity, may ascend these 
 steps and discover us. Let us go up further.'' 
 
 Slowly rising, she leaned upon his shoulder and they 
 began the ascent. Deeper grew the shade as they fol- 
 lowed the winding of the passage in the thick wall, until 
 they could no longer see the steps before them, but were 
 obliged to feel their way. And still the stone stairway 
 wound up, and they continued the ascent, knowing that at 
 some time it must come to an end. 
 
 At last, when they thought they must nearly have 
 reached the roof, a glimmer of light appeared before them, 
 and in a moment more they could see the rough wall at the 
 side and could look upon each other's faces. Then, after 
 making a few more steps, they stopped. The stairway still 
 wound up, but it was useless to go any further, for now 
 they were safe. They were upon a landing, — a space large 
 enough to sit down upon and rest. The cobwebs whiich 
 they brushed aside gave proof that the place had not been 
 visited for months, and it was no less likely that as long a 
 period might elapse in the future without interruption. It 
 was here that the light came in, pouring through a narrow 
 horizontal aperture running along the top of the entabla- 
 ture and hidden -from below by the projection of the mould- 
 ings. Feeling safe at last, Oleotos and ^none here sat 
 down upon the stone landing, ^ind through this opening in 
 the wall, gazed out upon the city spread at their feet, and 
 with enforced patience awaited the return of night. 
 
^ N O N E . 263 
 
 CHAPTER XX. 
 
 To those faint and heart-sick watchers, it was a long and 
 weary day. As they sat constrained in the narrow wall, 
 oppressed with anxious thought, the minutes seemed to 
 drag like hours, and the sun to climb his upward course so 
 slowly, that at times the shadows upon the cornice of the 
 temple scarcely moved. It was hard to realize that, in the 
 city below, there were so many thousands basking in a 
 general joy and festivity which made the whole day pass 
 as though Apollo's steeds were doubly winged. 
 
 And yet, had Cleotos and ^none been free from care and 
 uneasiness, there was much in their position to have given 
 enjoyment. Prom the opening along the entablature there 
 lay spread out before them the finest view that Eome could 
 offer. It would almost seem as though the temple had been 
 located where it was with especial reference to splendid 
 scenic effect. Raised upon the Capitoline Hill, its grand 
 chaste mass looked down upon all about it — and gave to 
 the watchers above unequalled limits of fair landscape. The 
 Capitol itself was beneath them ; and further down lay the 
 Forum, with its intertwining courts and colonnades. At the 
 right was the palace of the Caesars — at the left, the Appian 
 Way began its course, at such an angle as was best calcu- 
 lated to give a view of its palaces for a long distance away 
 — and in front stood the Colosseum itself. In all that med- 
 
264 ^NONE. 
 
 ley of magnificent architecture there spread out, but few 
 buildings of mean appearance could be seen ; and these 
 were blended by the distance into pleasant combinations of 
 shapes and tints concealing their defects, and giving, by 
 contrast, superior magnificence to the edifices gathered 
 closely about. And thus at one view was to be witnessed 
 more that was beautiful and grand in architecture than at 
 that time could be presented to the gaze in any other por- 
 tion of the empire — temples and courts and baths and am- 
 phitheatres in a confusing yet not irregular array, stretch- 
 ing away for miles, until gradually their grandeur gave 
 place to the quiet beauty of suburban villas, and these, in 
 turn, to the open country rolling out, with its wealth of 
 vineyards and olive-groves,-' until met by the blue sea. 
 
 And this scene, so imposing, had now a new attraction in 
 the life which flowed in and about it, for there had collect- 
 ed half the population of Eome. Senators and plebeians, 
 soldiers and slaves, all classes and degrees were there met 
 t9gether ; each, whether rich or poor, powerful or abased, 
 now smiling and joyous with festive animation. Jewelled im- 
 perial uniforms, and less rich .but more picturesque costumes 
 from all the tributary nations of the barbarians, mingling 
 together — new arches raised upon the cross-ways — new 
 statues of the gods, for the first time unveiled in the open 
 squares — fountains and altars and loud music, and all that 
 has ever been contrived to give life to a city made wild 
 with a delirium of long-anticipated festivity were now pre- 
 sented to the sight and hearing in that most magnificent 
 quarter of the great city of the age. Even the gladiators, 
 who, at an early period of the day, walked two by two 
 
^ N O N B . 265 
 
 across tlie Forum to the amphitheatre, frotifi which it was 
 certain that half of them would, not return alive, forgot 
 their dangers and shook their weapons aloft with a wild 
 cry of triumphant exultation. 
 
 But to Cleotos and ^none, there could be no such sense 
 of joyousness. The outside sunshine and gaiety could only 
 serve to remind them of their own isolation and unhappi- 
 ness. Those hours of festivity which had been so eagerly 
 anticipated by thousands, were to themselves only a sad 
 aljyss separating them from safety. Would that the night 
 were come, so that they could depart I What might not 
 happen before then ? Perhaps, at that very moment, the 
 imperator was engaged in tlie double search after his wife 
 and his slave ; and if so, what assurance could there be 
 that some one might not have seen her as she lay upon the 
 outer steps, and thus be able to point the way to her retreat ? 
 Or a mere chance might reveal them. Some priest of the 
 temple might, for the first time in many days, climb up the 
 stairway for the purpose of gazing out upon this view now 
 so fraught with unaccustomed animation — or a workman 
 might come to complete some forgotten task, for slaves did 
 not.always have their holidays insured to them ; and if the 
 two fugitives were discovered in this hiding-place, all would 
 be indeed lost to them. No eloquence of language could 
 then give cogency to their explanations, or lead the world 
 to believe that such concealment for a night and a day to- 
 gether had not been planned deliberately and with fore- 
 thought. It was with trembling, almost, that they looked 
 forth upon the panorama below them ; nor could they al- 
 ways give due credence to that reasoning which told them 
 
 13 
 
266 ^ N O N E . 
 
 how impossible it was that a gazer from below could see 
 those two pale faces pressed against the inner side of that 
 deep-grated aperture. On6e, when a soldier pointed up- 
 wards with his spear, it seemed as though he motioned at 
 them ; and they shrank away from the opening, and, for 
 awhile, anxiously listened, as though at each moment they 
 might hear the tramp of guards coming to drag them down. 
 Far away, past the amphitheatre and the suburban villas, 
 Cleotos could see the track of the paved road leading to 
 Ostia. Not many miles could he follow it before it was lost 
 in the distance, but in imagination he could still trace its 
 line until it reached the sea. There, now, lay the vessel 
 freighted for the Grecian isles. Perhaps it might yet linger 
 until he came — perhaps, on the contrary, the sails were 
 ready to be spread, and the commander, with one parting 
 glance along the shore in search of him who was to come 
 and present a ring for a token, was turning to give the 
 order to unmoor. But if too late, there must surely be 
 other vessels soon ready to sail, thought Cleotos. He 
 would conceal himself and await his chance for one of 
 them ; and if ever he had the good fortune to find himself 
 far out at sea, then he would be safe. The arm of the gov- 
 ernment was long and powerful, indeed, and reached to 
 every corner of the empire. There was no obscurity, how- 
 ever dark, into which it could not penetrate. But it was 
 not likely that its whole machinery of detection would be 
 employed for the apprehension of a lowly fugitive. He 
 would, therefore, be at rest ; and when once at home again, 
 might trust for protection to his own insignificance. And 
 whether at Samos or elsewhere, he could surely find some 
 
^ N O N E . 267 
 
 quiet nook in which to pass away the remainder of his life 
 in peace and tranquillity. 
 
 Can it be wondered that he should long for the hour of 
 escape to approach," even though at his side now rested the 
 only being whom he had ever loved with a calm and endur- 
 ing affection ? She had told him that their paths must ever 
 be separate ; what hope, therefore, could there be for him, and 
 why should he wish to linger ? Their parting must come 
 in a few hours, at the latest ; why then wish to needlessly 
 delay it? And before him, as a dread warning not to 
 pause, towered the amphitheatre, already fast filling with 
 an impatient crowd, eagerly waiting to glut their eyes 
 
 - upon the misery of some who, like himself, had committed 
 no other fault than that of offending their masters in per- 
 haps yet more trivial particulars. Accident only — the 
 momentary compassion of one who had hitherto treated him 
 unpityingly — had hindered him from being one of those 
 unfortunates. And he had not yet fully made good his 
 escape. The victims for that day were now groaning in 
 their underground cells, listening, perhaps, to the bowlings 
 of the beasts that were to devour them ; but the spectacles 
 were destined to last for many days to come, and each 
 repetition would require its separate quota of living food 
 for the lions. He must, therefore, hasten. He could not, 
 at any risk of life or limb, desert her who had been thrown 
 
 "upon his protection ; but that task once accomplished, there 
 
 must be no long delay before placing the waves of the sea 
 
 between himself and the imperial city. 
 
 To .^none there was no such journey in anticipation. 
 
 She needed not to fill out the narrow limits of her bodily 
 
268 ^NONE. 
 
 vision with fancied pictures of distant seas and shores. 
 The end of her path lay directly before her. She could see 
 the marble front of her lord's palace — the fountain in the 
 inner court — the twin statues at the entrance. All these 
 were but a few steps off, and had she been endowed with 
 invisibility, not many minutes could have elapsed before 
 she would be at her home again. But there, far different 
 from the lot of Cleotos, her other troubles would begin. 
 To him, home would be the restoration of peace and safety ; 
 to her, it might be only the entry into new trials. Could 
 she feel sure that her lord would not again eject her, and 
 perhaps this time with open and public ignominy? Or, if 
 he received her again, would it be with repentant love ? 
 Would it not rather be because he would dread the com- 
 ments and strictures of the world ? Might not her life, 
 from that moment, be still more embittered with suspicion, 
 reproaches, and . insults, until she would look upon her 
 refuge in the temple of Ceres as a place from which she 
 should never have departed ? , 
 
 "Tell me, Cleotos," she said, "will he take me again to 
 his love as before ?" 
 
 She knew that Cleotos could not answer that ques- 
 tion as well as she could herself ; and yet she would fain 
 have heard some words of comfort and assurance from 
 him, even if they only whispered of deceitful hope. And 
 what could he say ? He understood her thoughts, and how, 
 by a few forced expressions of confidence, he might bring 
 present peace to her heart ; and yet he dared not speak 
 them. He knew too well all that was to be dreaded from 
 the anger and suspicion of the imperator, and he could not 
 
^ N O N E . 269 
 
 bear to raise within her breast a false security. Better 
 that she should be miserable now and yet prepared, than 
 to be lulled into deceitful forgetfulness and again rudely 
 awakened. 
 
 " We cannot read his heart," Cleotos answered. " Let 
 us only hope that he will not be unrelenting." 
 
 She bowed her head. 
 
 " If I thought otherwise, I would pray the gods that I 
 might not live to meet him," she said. " Do you not think, 
 dear friend, that it would have been better if I had died 
 .upon the cold pavement below ? Or, since I did not, that 
 I should yet die here, rather than return ?" 
 
 " Why talk of dying, JEnone ? You are too young for 
 that ; and there should be many years of happiness before 
 you." 
 
 " Yes, I am young, Cleotos, but the young as well as the 
 old can die. And as to happiness, does it often last through 
 a long life ? Age should not count by years alone. When- 
 ever happiness has fled, then" all that is precious about life 
 is gone forever ; and the soul is old, however few may have 
 been the years of the body. Do you know, Cleotos, there 
 was one moment, not many hours ago, when it seemed to 
 me as though I should never leave this place ?" 
 
 "What idle fancy is this ?" he said, striving to smile en 
 couragingly. 
 
 " Nay, let me tell you what I dreamed while I slept 
 below. It was not as I lay upon the pavement ; but after 
 that, when you had left me for a moment by myself. Then, 
 for the instant, I sank into a troubled sleep ; and I dreamed 
 that I saw this winding stairway. So natural did it all 
 
270 ^ N N E . 
 
 seem, that when you afterwards supported me up from step 
 to step, I felt as though I knew the place and had been 
 here before. And I dreamed that I went up higher and 
 higher ; — and then a great fear seemed to fall upon me, and 
 something told me that death stood near, but in what way 
 I could not tell. And I awoke." 
 
 " And found that it was all a dream ; — what then ?" 
 Cleotos said, still trying to smile. But it was a troubled 
 smile, for those were days when it was thought that 
 dreams were sent by the gods for a purpose, and were not 
 to be lightly disregarded. "You were tired and bruised.. 
 Is it strange that your mind should have indulged in some 
 distempered fancies ? Think no more of it." 
 
 "True, — I should not think of it again," she said. " And 
 I remember now that my dream was not in all things like 
 the reality. I seem to know these steps as though I had 
 seen them before ; and yet it was not as though we stopped 
 here at this narrow opening, for we stood in the open air, 
 beneath the sky. In this, at least, it was unlike." 
 
 " And that very falsity, therefore, proves that the whole 
 was false — does it not, ^none ?" 
 
 " It must, indeed, Cleotos. And even if it were all true, 
 why should I feel fear ? For I remember that the evil 
 dream did not seem to last, but that I awakened, not, as 
 you might think, cast down by the overshadowing of the 
 great dread which for the moment had drifted over me, but 
 rather buoyed up with a strange and unlooked-for feeling of 
 comfort nestling in my heart and whispering of relief. 
 What make you of it all, Cleotos ? Had succor really 
 come at the end, and the threatened doom been, driven 
 
^NONE. 271 
 
 away T Or was it that I did not any longer fear to die, 
 but rather wished to court death I Would he — ^would my 
 lord come to look upon me if I died, Cleotos ? Would he 
 weep for me then, do you think ? I would not wish that 
 he should be unhappy, either ; but if my death would cause 
 him to think upon me with tenderness again, then would I 
 rather die than live on and be still under his displeasure." 
 
 "These are but uncomfortable words, ^none, and you 
 should not speak them. Rather, if you cannot encourage 
 cheerful hopes, strive to give up all thought whatsoever, 
 and, like any other idle spectator, look upon the scene 
 before us. See ! there comes the Emperor Titus ; and now, 
 at last, the games will commence." 
 
 Oleotos pointed towards the palace where a crowd of ex- 
 pectant thousands, which had long loitered about the prin- 
 cipal portal, began to break away and leave a clear passage 
 for the emperor, who, mounted upon a decorated steed and 
 heralded by loud music, now made his appearance. Sur- 
 rounded by his chief officers and an escort of the Prastorian 
 guard, he slowly rode through the ever-thickening crowd, 
 until, saluted with uninterrupted acclamations, he gained 
 the amphitheatre and disappeared beneath one of the orna- 
 mented arches. The next moment, fresh bands of music 
 struck up their strains of triumph within, telling the world 
 that the emperor had taken his seat, and was ready to open 
 the games. 
 
 Slowly the shadows moved along the moulding of the en- 
 tablature ; and gradually, as the sun rose higher in the 
 heavens and the noonday heat increased, the more intense 
 fermentation of the- city population subsided. Those who 
 
272 iENONB. 
 
 were outside the amphitheatre, and who for the most part 
 had hitherto moved to and fro, as, one after another, new 
 objects excited their attention, now, little by little, with- 
 drew into shady and cool by-ways and passages ; — all, 
 except a few thousands who still stood outside, listening 
 to the shouts of men and the growls of wild beasts within, 
 and joining with greedy sympathy in each burst of ap- 
 plause. 
 
 But inside the great building there was as yet no lack or 
 decay of interest. As the heat increased, a hundred slaves 
 had swarmed up the tall posts planted along" the upper edge, 
 and thence had spread from side to side the great silken 
 velarium. Thus protected from the fervid sun, the sixty 
 thousand spectators still sat with undiminished patience, 
 and watched the many real tragedies which each hour un- 
 rolled before them. Where Cleotos and ^none sat, the 
 interior of the amphitheatre could not be seen ; for high 
 as were the walls of the temple, the walls of the former 
 building were higher. But the distance was not too great 
 for sound to be conveyed ; and ever and anon would be 
 borne along across the Forum the sullen fierce snarl of 
 beasts or a single sharp cry of a human victim, closely 
 followed by the united sounds of thousands of hands 
 clapped together like the distant pattering of hail. 
 
 Still the shadows crept along the entablature, slowly but 
 surely * and, at last, the sun began to approach its western 
 goal. Then, upon a sudden, there arose from the amphi- 
 theatre a mingled tumult and din, eclipsing all that had 
 gone before. There were the roarings of infuriated beasts, 
 snarling and fighting over their prey, — the sln-ieks of vie- 
 
iENONB. 273 
 
 tims, — the loud bursts of music, — the clapping of hands 
 and the shouts of thousands of voices, all swelling forth in 
 one chaos of wild confusion. Was it merely the combat 
 of some favorite gladiator with a beast of inordinate 
 power ? Was it no combat at all, but the simple destruc- 
 tion of an unresisting slave or Christian captive ? Or was 
 it one grand closing piece for the day, — a cunningly pre- 
 pared chaotic struggle of scores of famished beasts for 
 himdreds of contributed human victims, — a spectacle de- 
 signed to surpass all that had gone before, and, at the same 
 time, to whet the public appetite for the more brilliant 
 spectacles that were to come upon the morrow ? 
 
 Whatever it might be, it was soon over. Gradually 
 the shrieks ceased and the roar of savage beasts died 
 away ; and then, in a few moments, as the sun touched the 
 western plains, the whole multitude began to pour out from 
 the diiferent arched entrances. The sports for that day 
 were at an end ; and the enchanted, but not yet satiated, 
 audience streamed off in different directions, across the 
 Forum and down the Appian and Sacred Ways. First, the 
 emperor with his escort, as he had arrived, — then, the 
 nobles and richer citizens^ — and, lastly, the slaves and the 
 plebeians from the upper benches ; — all criticising the 
 performance of the day in the several lights in which their 
 position or education led them to look upon it, but no one 
 appearing to have a thought of pity for those who had 
 suffered for the common amusement. Laughing and shout- 
 ing, as they wended their way homeward, or, as still un- 
 sated with magnificent, show, they followed the imperial 
 procession to the palace, there was, perhaps, no one among 
 
 13* 
 
274 iB N N E . 
 
 them all who looked upon the record of the day with any 
 thing else than careless levity. 
 
 Only iEnone, who, bowed down with her own troubles, 
 still felt for the woes of those who had that day suffered in 
 the arena. Long after their voices had been hushed, their 
 shrieks continued to 'ring in her ears, and her soul rebelled 
 at the injustice and heartlessness which could extract 
 amusement out of a fellow-mortal's agony. 
 
 "Are there gods in heaven at all?" she cried. "Tell 
 ine, Cleotos, can there be gods and yet this thing be suf- 
 fered to exist ? Oh, for some other world, where the errors 
 of this one cannot prevail ; or, while we are here, for some 
 quiet nook in this world, apart from such mocking strife 
 and cruelty ! In your own Samos, is there no such spot, 
 Oleotos ?" 
 
 Cleotos felt his eyes sparkle with joy and anticipation of 
 hope. Could it be that mow, in her iridignation and ab- 
 horrence of that imperial fountain of corruption and in- 
 humanity, she was at last about to consent to leave all and 
 follow him ? 
 
 " iEnone," he said, bending over her, " in my native 
 island there is no such cruelty as is here found ; and 
 though there is no place in all the world where man's in- 
 justice cannot reach, yet we may shun all open communica- 
 tion with it. Will you go thither ?" 
 
 " Would that I could !" she said. " But, alas I what is 
 there that could turn my lord's heart so that he would con- 
 sent to give up this hollow world of imperial vanity, and 
 with me seek for such an innocent shelter as you describe ? 
 No, there is no hope of that 1" 
 
MNONE. 275 
 
 And Oleotos sank back despairingly. Why had he 
 trusted himself to misconstrue her few words and once 
 again nourish such vain dreams ? Must she be obliged 
 each minute to forewarn him that he could have no part in 
 her future life, but that, through every ill and indignity, 
 her nature would attach itself yet more firmly to the hope 
 to which it had learned to cling ? ^And he spoke no more ; 
 but, as they sat side by side, watching the sun go down 
 and the deeper shadows steal over the earth, and the streets 
 empty of their moving masses and the dim lights here and 
 there flicker out, and thus waited until the time might 
 come for them to descend and take their homeward way, 
 he thought how terrible would be her awakening if her 
 lord should still overwhelm her with his disdain ; and how 
 much better it might have been for her, after all, if she 
 had died upon the cold pavement at the foot of the marble 
 goddess 1 » 
 
276 ^NONB. 
 
 CHAPTEE XXI. 
 
 And at last the hour came for the attempt. It was not 
 safe to descend to the street in the early portion of the 
 night, by reason of the many bands of revellers still roving 
 about, any of whora, through wanton sportiveness, might 
 interfere to stop the fugitives, and thus perhaps lead to their 
 recognition and detention. But one by one these parties 
 hurried past into the darker and more obscure recesses of 
 the city or else dispersed, and single wayfarers became less 
 frequent, and here and there the lights in different houses 
 were extinguished ; and at length comparative repose fell 
 upon all around. Then Cleotos arose. 
 
 " It is time," he said. " I will first venture down and see 
 that the way is clear." 
 
 Then, leaving her, he began to descend the steps ; slowly 
 groping his way with his outstretched hands touching the 
 wall on either side, and with a strange feeling of dread 
 lurking in his heart. "Why was it that now, when all the 
 city seemed asleep, he felt more strongly than during the 
 day a something warning him of interruption ? Was it a 
 mysterious prescience impressed upon him by some guardian 
 spirit ? Or was it a mere nervous fear, resulting from an 
 overtaxed and wearied system now aroused to unwonted 
 action? Whatever it was, he felt that morbid foreboding 
 circling about his heart closer and closer as each instant he 
 
^NONB. 277 
 
 descended nearer to the pavement which his reason told 
 him he would find unwatched and vacant ; and when, at 
 the last step of all, something clasped him by the leg and 
 a powerful form rose up dimly before him, he stopped — not 
 in surprise, but in despair. 
 
 "Whither away so fast, my master?" came in gruff 
 tones to his ears. "Let me first know who it is that would 
 slip by so slily." 
 
 " Is it you, Drumo ?" murmured Cleotos, recognizing the 
 voice of the armor-bearer. " Alas ! then all is indeed lost 1 
 How and why have you tracked me ? Could you not have 
 waited one day until I was beyond your reach ?" 
 
 "And is it you, valiant cup-bearer?" exclaimed the 
 armor-bearer with a loud laugh. " Nay, fear me not. I 
 have not come out, seeking to carry you back to your 
 prison-house. Am I not myself a fugitive ? And how do I 
 know but what you have been sent out to capture me ?" 
 
 At the idea, the giant threw back his head and laughed 
 yet more heartily. It was evident that, if a fugitive, he \ 
 did not take his position much to heart, but would be merry 
 and careless whatever fate awaited him. 
 
 "But sit you down, ^Cleotps, and tell me how it is that i 
 you are here. Yet, bah I What is there to tell me ? Do I 
 not know it all, — ^hqw that you were set free by that black- 
 eyed Leta, and thence have, somehow, found out this hiding 
 place, which I thought was known only to myself ? Tell 
 me, though I You do not know, perhaps, that afterwards 
 your mistress was left out in the street, passing through 
 the same gate at which you escaped. Have you seen or 
 heard aught about her, in your wanderings to and fro ?" 
 
278 iB N N E . 
 
 " I have not," answered Cleotos, instinctively foreboding 
 mischief. 
 
 " It matters not," mused the armor-bearer. " I shall yet 
 find her. Certainly she has not returned to the palace. 
 Nor would she think of doing so, believing that she would 
 be again cast out. But if I could only meet her — " 
 
 " And for what purpose ?" faintly asked Cleotos. " Surely 
 she could not now assist you ?" 
 
 ' " Assist me ?" roared the armor-bearer. " As though I 
 ■would ever ask assistance from any one, — ^much less from a 
 woman I Nay, I would extend aid to her. She has been 
 cast off from her own place, and she must believe that all 
 such ties are broken. Thenceforth she should go with me, 
 and be mine alone." 
 
 " Yours ?" murmured the amazed Cleotos. 
 
 "Ay, is there any thing so wonderful in that? Because 
 you have given yourself up in love to her, is it a good 
 reason that no one else should do the same ? What there 
 is about that puny weakly form and that meek little face of 
 hers to enchant me, who can tell ? I only know that, for 
 months, I have thought about her and dreamed about her, 
 and wondered whether time might not, at last, bring some 
 hope to me. It is dark, Cleotos, and I cannot see your face, 
 but I know that you must be laughing. I would laugh, 
 myself, if in your place, at the thought of such a great 
 burly fellow as I am, becoming enamored of an innocent 
 little lamb like that ! And the merriest thing about it is, 
 that I cannot understand it myself, but merely know that 
 it is so. And thus, for months, I concealed my love, and 
 wore a brave, indiflferent face, and smiled upon my master ; 
 
^ N O N E . 279 
 
 and struggled hard to resist the temptation I sometimes 
 felt to put a knife into him for very hatred of his happiness. 
 But now that I am at last a free man — " 
 
 " A free man ?" ejaculated Cleotos. 
 
 "Yes, a free man," responded the armor-bearer. " It does 
 not look much like it, these stone walls — this hiding-place 
 — does it ? , But sit you down upon that step above me, and 
 I will tell you all about it." 
 
 Cleotos sat down. He must yield to the necessity, for he 
 could not venture to leave the armor-bearer without the 
 danger of awakening suspicion, or what would equally lead 
 to discovery — being followed. No matter how anxiously 
 ^none might be waiting, he must leave her alone until an 
 opportunity occurred to steal away. And a great aching 
 pain spread over his temples with his dread, lest, after long 
 waiting for him, she might begin to reproach him in her 
 heart with trying to make his escape alone, or might her- 
 self descend to find out what detained him. 
 
 " And first, refresh yourself while you listen," said the 
 armor-bearer. "Here is some black bread and a flask of 
 wine that I purchased at a shop as I fled to this place. It 
 will serve to keep up your strength and courage for what 
 you may yet have to go through. No ? You are wrong, 
 there, but be it as you will. To me no drink ever came 
 amiss, and more especially not now, that I must pass half 
 this night in this damp cell and upon these cold stones." 
 
 With that he lifted the flask, and throwing back his 
 head, indulged, by way of illustration, in a prolonged drink 
 — not by any means the first one of the evening, for already 
 in his thickened utterance and disorderly gestures, he gave 
 
280 JB N N E . 
 
 evidence of having exceeded the bounds of a reasonable 
 discretion. Then, replacing the flask at his side, in readi- 
 ness for further applications to it, he leaned against the 
 wall and continued : , 
 
 " All the rest of that night I followed my master about ; 
 never, when I could help it, losing him from my sight, for 
 his action was strange, and at times I feared lest he might 
 do himself some mischief Once, towards morning, he start- 
 ed up, took the keys and passed down through the garden ; 
 and I crept along softly at his heels, for I suspected where 
 he was going. Entering the slave-prison, he unlocked the 
 outer door leading into the alley behind — the same door at 
 which our mistress had been bolted out — and then, passing 
 through, he gazed about him. I knew that he was looking 
 for her, thinking that perhaps she might yet be crouching 
 near. But she was gone. It was still dark, though not so 
 dark but that he might have seen her white dress if she had 
 been at hand. Yes, he not only looked for her, but once 
 called her by her name ; and I heard a sort of sob come 
 from his throat as he waited in vain for an answer.'' 
 
 " He would have taken her back again, if she had been 
 there," cried Cleotos. 
 
 " Not so, I think ; though I believe he was sorry he had 
 not been less rough with her. Well, he called her by name ; 
 and then,. turning suddenly around, saw me, in spite of my 
 efforts to keep out of his way. And he grasped me by the 
 neck and pressed me against the side of the wall. 
 
 " ' What do you here, dogging my steps V he cried. 
 
 " ' I do not dog your steps, master,' I said. ' But I 
 have come to tell you about my mistress. Knowing full 
 
iENONB. 281 
 
 well that you would soon be anxious about -her, I dispatched 
 a slave to inquire, and he returned but a little while ago. 
 He tells me that she has found her way to the house of 
 her father, the centurion R)rthenus, where she now rests in 
 safety.' In saying this, of course I lied, Cleotos ; but you 
 will see that it was necessary, for I did not want him to 
 search too long after her." 
 
 " And he — what did he do then ?" demanded Cleotos. 
 
 " He released my neck from his fingers and paused for a 
 moment in thought. Then he told me that I had done well ; 
 said something about never meaning to see her again — that 
 he should not have treated her so roughly, but would have 
 done better himself to have sent her carefully and safely 
 back to her father's house — ^but that it was all the same, 
 since she had, at last, got there — and so, walked back to his 
 own room. There I still hovered near, keeping my eye 
 upon him ; for though in the one matter of her safety he 
 was relieved, he did not yet in all respects seem to be in his 
 right mind. Every little while he would drink more wine — 
 a bad practice, Cleotos, for he had had enough ; and would 
 sing songs and break into all kinds- of forced and extrava- 
 gant merriment. Then he would sink back into a state of 
 stupor, and sometimes it would seem as though he slept, ex- 
 cept that I heard him muttering to himself. I could not 
 catch all that he said, but from a word or two, he appeared 
 to be talking about our mistress ; and sometimes I began to 
 think that he really cared for the poor little creature, after 
 all, and regretted her. Or, was it the disgrace of the mat- 
 ter that overcame him ? I could not make it out ; but I 
 know this, Cleotos, that it is well for you that you es- 
 
282 aiNONB. 
 
 caped, for never yet has man had such vengeance wreaked 
 upon him as you would have endured if you had remained 
 in his power until morning." 
 
 " But I was innocent," said Cleotos. " You surely must 
 know that." 
 
 "Bah I I know it well enough, but what would that 
 have mattered as long as he believed you guilty ? Have 
 innocent men never suffered before now ? Well, there for 
 awhile he lay, until, as morning dawned, a message 
 came to him. The comedian Bassus had sent for Leta, 
 whom, it seems, he had won at play, and she had asked to 
 see our master. Perhaps she fancied that she might yet 
 work upon his feelings so that he would retain her. But he 
 would not see her even for a moment, and she went away 
 to her new home, with all the gold and jewels and rich 
 attire that had ever been given to her, but without a single 
 kind word of farewell. So that was the end of her. And 
 then, the imperator rose iip from the couch, poured water 
 over his face and hands, and began to dress himself with 
 more than ordinary care. I had thought that he would not 
 go out, but I was mistaken. There came a new mood upon 
 him, and he set his lips together with the air of. one who 
 had become inspired with a great resolution. 
 
 " ' Keach me my purple tunic and let my hair-dresser 
 come to me with his perfumes,' he said. 'She shall not 
 have it to say that I have shed a tear or altered a day 
 of my life on account of her. I will tear her from my 
 heart ! By the gods ! I will forget that she has ever 
 lived.' 
 
 " He mentioned no name when he spoke, but I knew well 
 
iENONB. 283 
 
 that he was not thinking of the Greek girl, but only of our 
 mistress. 
 
 " ' And can I therefore — ' I commenced ; and I stopped 
 pretty much as I had begun,' for something seemed to warn 
 me that it was not yet time to speak out what I had in my 
 heart. There was an ugly look in his face, and, like a slave 
 as I was, I was afraid to go on. 
 
 " ' Can you what ?' he said, turning upon me sharply ; 
 and for the moment I dreaded lest he had fathomed my 
 meaning. But he had not. 
 
 " ' Go to the amphitheatre,' he continued, after a minute 
 or two, ' and see that my place is made ready. Upon this 
 day, of all others, I shall not let them see that I am absent. 
 Have my whole escort at hand to accompany me.' 
 
 " And so, Cleotos, you see what a man this was, who 
 called us his slaves. Hating him as I do, I must still 
 wonder at and admire him. For, instead of remaining at 
 home, tossing upon his couch and moaning forth his com- 
 plaints as I had expected, and feared indeed, — for it would 
 not have been becoming to have shown such passion for 
 only a woman, — ^he acted the brave part, dressed himself in 
 his gayest apparel, perfumed his beard, and, with his 
 whole retinue, took his place at the amphitheatre, and there 
 sat laughing and nodding to his friends as though his heart 
 was light as a feather. I do not know whether the story 
 of his disgrace had yet gone the rounds. If so, no one 
 dared to hint the knowledge of it to him ; for, though he 
 smiled and jested with all, there was a certain dangerous 
 look in the corner of his eye, that showed how ill he would 
 brook any mention of what had happened. Ha ! it makes 
 
284 iE N N E . 
 
 me thirsty to think of it, only. Let me wait a moment 
 and take one more pull at the flask." 
 
 "But your freedom ; what has all this to do with it?" 
 asked Cleotos, more for the sake of saying something than 
 because he felt in any way interested in the subject. For 
 there was still upon him the same continued dread lest 
 JEnone, alarmed at his protracted absence, might descend to 
 look for him ; and he hoped that in such a case the sound of 
 his voice in conversation might reach her ear and warn her 
 to stay back. Once, indeed, it seemed to him as though he 
 heard the rustle of her dress against the wall and even her 
 suppressed breathing at his ear ; but it was merely the 
 wind sighing through the vaulted passage. 
 
 " I am coming to that," responded the armor-bearer. 
 " Will you not give me time ? And what use or benefit is 
 there in being a free man if one cannot tell his story in his 
 own way? Well, you must have heard that our master has 
 had a long-standing wager with the proconsul Sardesus as 
 to which of the two could produce the best gladiator. How 
 many thousand sestertia were staked, I know not. That 
 mattered little to me. I only know that, ag the weeks had 
 run on, our master had failed to find the right kind of man 
 to put into the arena, and had about made up his mind to 
 give up the contest and pay the necessary forfeit with a 
 good grace. But now there was a devil of obstinacy and 
 recklessness raised in him ; and he began, even at, that last 
 moment, to cast about him for even the slightest chance to 
 win. And so the time for the single combats arrived, and 
 the proconsul was ready with his man, — a great stout 
 Rhodian slave, taller than I am by an inch, and I am of no 
 
-2E N O N B. 285 
 
 small height, — with the neck and forehead of a bull and 
 the muscles of Hercules. At the first sight I remembered 
 the caitiff; for he had been among our prisoners from the 
 East, and had thence somehow passed into the proconsul's 
 possession. There the man stood waiting for his opponent ; 
 in default of whose appearance the proconsul would claim 
 the stakes. • A hard thing for the imperator to lose so much, 
 just for want of a 'little hired brawn and bone, was it not, 
 Cleotos ?" 
 
 " And did he lose ?" said Oleotos, still without interest, 
 but yielding to the necessity which forbadfe silence. 
 
 " You shall hear. Our master looked at the Ehodian for 
 a moment despairingly and then touched me on the breast. 
 
 " ' Twenty sestertia, if you slay that man for me,' he said. 
 ; "'Will twenty sestertia mend my broken bones?' I 
 sinswered, shrugging my shoulders. ' Large and strong as I 
 am, that knave in the arena will, with one hug, crack my 
 joints apart, like an egg-shell. Nay, nay, master, I have 
 oftentimes proved myself no coward, but now, some other 
 man must undertake that work for you.' 
 
 " ' Thirty — fifty sestertia, — your freedom if you succeed 
 in killing him,' said he. 
 
 " ' No, no,' I still said, — ^but while I spoke I began to 
 reflect. It would be,, after all, a great thing to be free, — to 
 polish my own armor instead of that of another person ; or, 
 better yet, to have a slave of my own to polish it for me. 
 And then I thought that, as a free man, I might stand 
 nearer my mistress, who, having been cast out, would, 
 perhaps, if I ever met her again, learn to forget that I 
 had ever been any thing other than a free citizen of 
 
286 ^NONE. 
 
 Eome. And with that the impulse seized me, and I 
 snatched up a weapon and leaped down into the arena." 
 
 " And slew the Rhodian ?" 
 
 " Yes, or I should not have been here now. But it was 
 a hard struggle ; and had it not been that I had the most 
 activity to set off against his greater strength, it might 
 easily have gone the other way. But he slipped in his own 
 blood, and I plunged my weapon into his throat, and he fell 
 back with a dying groan, and the people shouted their ap- 
 plause, and I clambered back into my seat ; and the impera- 
 tor, in his joy, not only proclaimed my freedom, but flung me 
 a purse of gold pieces besides." 
 
 " And then you left him ?" 
 
 " Not yet. I was entitled to do so, of course ; but I had 
 given him my escort from the palace, and, as a matter of 
 grace and courtesy, would attend him back again. So I re- 
 turned at his side ; and, as the Pates would have it, when 
 alone with him in his private chamber, he said something 
 more about my mistress. What it was, I remember not ; 
 but the mention of her name put it into my heart to say 
 what I had before vainly attempted to say. Then, I had 
 been a slave and had not dared to utter the words. Now, 
 I was a free man ; and what was there that I might not 
 have the courage for ? 
 
 "'Nay, master,' I said. 'You have cast her away from 
 you. You have therefore no further care about her. Leave 
 her to me.' 
 
 " By the gods ! Cleotos, I had better not have said it, 
 even then ; for he turned upon me like a tiger, and there 
 was a savage glare in his eye which I would not care to 
 
^ N O N B . 287 
 
 meet again, big and burly as I am. Then it flashed upon 
 me, — all that I had before but dimly suspected,— that he 
 - had loved the woman, even though he had cast her off ; and 
 that though, for awhile, that fiery Samoen girl had ruled 
 his soul by some devilish charm, yet that now the spell was 
 gone and his thoughts were turned once more back to his 
 meek little -blue-eyed wife. I read all that in an instant, 
 even as his clenched hand was raised over me ; and I knew 
 tkat, in the demand I had made, I had done him an insult 
 which he could never pardon. But it was too late for me^ 
 to draw back ; — I could only go on and make the best of it. 
 
 " 'Dog 1' he said, standing for a moment as if stunned by 
 my words, and as yet doubtful of my meaning. ' What in- 
 solence is this ? Shall I strike you dead upon the spot, vile 
 slave that you are V 
 
 " ' Not now a slave,' I said. ' Do you so soon forget that 
 you have given me my freedom, — ay, and proclaimed it, 
 too ? I am a Koman citizen, and, so far, am the equal of 
 yourself. You have cast off your wife, and cannot now op- 
 pose me if I take her to myself.' 
 
 " That, at least, is what I began to say. Whether I said 
 it all, I know -not ; for there came a blow across my face 
 that sent me reeling against the wall and covered me with 
 blood. Could you have borne that, Cleotos ? Answer me, 
 could you have borne that ? Think of it I I was a free 
 man, and he had struck me like a hound 1 He had often 
 struck me before, but then I had been a slave and had 
 scarcely minded it. But now that I was a citizen, the blow 
 seemed to make a scar upon my very soul. How I did it, 
 I can hardly tell ; but in a minute I had crushed him down 
 
288 ^ N O N E . 
 
 with the weight of my naked fist, and he lay quivering at 
 my feet." 
 
 " Dead ? Surely not dead ?" exclaimed Cleotos. 
 
 " No, not dead, or even insensible, though I had given 
 him a fearful blow. But I might as well have slain him, 
 for what safety could there be for me now ? First, there 
 had been this insult to him and then this blow ; and how, 
 after all that, could I hope to escape his vengeance, except 
 by instant flight ? What happens to a slave who strikes 
 his master ? And though I was a slave no longer, and the 
 law might not give me over to his power, how could *I ex- 
 pect him to make close distinctions between the slavery of 
 the one hour and the freedom of the next, and thereby for- 
 bear his private vengeance ? No, I knew that I must fly ; 
 but before setting out, I did this. I leaned over him, 
 placed him half upright in the corner of his couch, pinned 
 his arms closely at his side and clasped his mouth so that 
 he could not struggle or cry for help ; and then, — ^then, by 
 the eternal Jove I I told him all that he would have liked to 
 have been told but one day before 1 I told him how that his 
 wife was innocent, — ^liow that you were to her only an old 
 friend of her youth, whom she was trying to deliver from 
 slavery and restore to his own country. This I knew ; for, 
 in my jealousy of you, Cleetos, I had watched you both, 
 and overheard your conversation. And I told him, further- 
 more, that it was not she who had released you from prison, 
 but that it was the black-eyed Leta. For here, too, I had 
 watched and seen for myself" 
 
 " Thanks to you for telling him that !'' cried Cleotos with 
 animation and seizing the hand of the armor-bearer with 
 
^NONE. 289 
 
 a convulsive pressure of gratitude. "This was noble and 
 generous-hearted, — to spend those last moments in removing 
 from the eyes of the man who had smitten you, the veil of 
 error which had blinded him !" 
 
 The armor-bearer burst into a roar of savage laughter, 
 which echoed through the whole building, and, if any one 
 had been passing at that moment, would have certainly 
 drawn attention to his place of concealment. But no one 
 was abroad or near at hand to be attracted by it 
 
 " Poor innocent little soul !" he cried, after another 
 draught from the flask of wine, and still shaking with 
 inward merriment, "Have I not always said, Cleotos, 
 that you should have' been born a priest or a woman or a 
 scholar, — any thing rather than a man intended to cope with 
 this troublesome" world of ours ? Why think ' you that I 
 should care to benefit the man who had so used me ? 
 Truly, forgiveness and magnanimity may hold fair places in 
 your catalogue of virtues, or may be used by those high in 
 power who can afford the luxuries of such qualities, now 
 and then, as a new sensation ; but they can have no 
 position in the mind of a slave. Had I the least expecta- 
 tion that this man could ever again meet his wife so as to 
 be reconciled with her, then it would have been a forgive- 
 ness and a benefit, indeed, for me to have told him what I 
 did. But knowi'Hg that he can never see her again, — this 
 is where my revenge shall strike home to his heart." 
 
 Cleotos sat stupefied and wondering. What devilish 
 device Gould this man have contrived that he could so turn 
 apparent benefits into instruments of vengeance ? And in 
 the momentary silence, once again he listened for the 
 
 13, 
 
290 ^ N N E . 
 
 sounds of a light descending footstep, and again seemed to 
 hear the rustle of a flowing garment against the wall. 
 Was the sound reai, this time ? Or was it, as before, the 
 sighing of the evening wind ? 
 
 " Now listen to met" continued the armor-bearer. "He 
 will never see her any more, for this night I will carry her 
 off with me. I know not where she now is, but I will find 
 out, and that easily. I have discovered for a certainty that 
 she has not returned to her father, and it is probable that 
 she must be lurking from sight in some lowly and not far- 
 off quarter of the city. Some persons who were abroad 
 last night must have seen her, and there are few of these 
 but must know me. Gladiators and slaves and keepers of 
 wine-shops, and all who would be apt to range the streets 
 after nightfall, know Drumo the armor-bearer ; and when I 
 come and ask here and there whether any among them has 
 seen a pale white woman dragging herself about the streets 
 and crouching out of sight, some one, at last, will be sure to 
 lead me to her hiding-place. I will find her before the 
 morning. I will drag her out. I have now the double 
 incentive of love for her and revenge towards the imperator 
 to help me. Th^t light frame of hers, — I can carry it in 
 my arms as another person can carry a child. Before the 
 Run is high, we will be miles away. I know old ruins and 
 quarries where we can be concealed by day ; and ere a 
 week is over, I shall have her in safety in some mountain 
 nook where no pursuit can reach me. And then — " 
 
 "And then — oh, and then?" cried Cleotos in a transport 
 of agony, as tlie dread malice of the plot began to become 
 apparent to him. ' 
 
iBNONE. 291 
 
 " Then, Cleotos, I will write to the imperator telling him 
 that she is with me, and that we are where he can never lay- 
 hands upon us again. Will not the tidings sting him and 
 bow his head with shame and agony ? If he believed that 
 she had been guilty, he would not regard the matter so 
 much. He would feel rage, to be Siire, and would curse me 
 from the bottom of his heart, and would wish that he could 
 lay his hand upon me once again ; but the paroxysm would 
 not last long, and soon he would forget her, as one un- 
 worthy of him. But knowing that she is innocent, — that 
 she has never wavered from him in thought or deed, — that 
 in driving her away from him he has done an injustice 
 which he can never repair, — and that now she is in the 
 power of the buffeted slave, — will not his newly awakened 
 love for her burn and burn until it eats into his soul and 
 makes him frantic with despair and hopeless regret? Will 
 not this be a revenge worth seeking ?" 
 
 " A revenge, indeed I" murmured Cleotos. 
 
 "Ay, trust to me for contriving schemes to repair my 
 wrongs. But why so silent? Is it from fear lest you, 
 too, may not escape ? Nay, I meant not to leave you here 
 alone. You shall go with us, my tender cup-bearer — I 
 pledge you my word for that. It will be good, indeed, that 
 we should join our wits together, for we can be vastly use- 
 ful to each other on our journey. You can, at proper 
 moments, steal out and buy bread and wine for us, while 
 we are in hiding here and there ; and I — I will give you 
 the protection of my strength and valor. Shall it not 
 be so ?" 
 
 " As you wish," muttered Cleotos. 
 
292 jE N O N E . 
 
 " -N^ay, it is a good arrangement," responded the armor- 
 bearer, " as fair for you as for me, though you seem to 
 treat it but lightly. But no matter for that. The end will 
 tell which one has been of the most use to the other. And 
 now that we have nothing further to speak about, let me 
 sleep for an hour or two. I, at least, need rest, for I have 
 worked hard to-day, and it was, in itself, no easy task to 
 cut the comb of that Rhodian gladiator." 
 
 With that the armor-bearer threw himself lengthwise 
 across one of the steps, placed his hands under his shaggy 
 head, and, in an instant, fell into an uneasy slumber. 
 
^ N O N E . 293 
 
 CHAPTER XXII. 
 
 For a moment Cleotos sat uneasily crouched in the angle 
 of the wall, and confusedly striving to arrange and reconcile 
 the conflicting emotions which overwhelmed his soul. 
 Mingled with his deep and fervent joy at the knowledge 
 that ^none could now be restored to her home and to her 
 shelter in the breast of her erring lord, came dark forebod- 
 ings regarding the difficulty of departure from the narrow 
 prison-house into which her fate had led her. For how could 
 she hope to pass, without detection, that bulky form, stretch- 
 ed like an unwieMy log across the only avenue of escape ; — 
 insensible now, to be sure, as he lay awaking the echoes 
 with his heavy and uneasy breathing, but yet sleeping with 
 all the instinctive alertness of a hunted man, and ready, at 
 the slightest incautious touch of an intruder, to spring up 
 into instant and savage action ? And yet, something must 
 soon be done, for the night was rapidly wearing away. 
 
 Softly Cleotos at length raised himself, crept away from 
 the prostrate giant and began to ascend the stairway, still 
 pondering as he went. But no satisfactory scheme of re- 
 lief crossed his bewildered brain. And now he remembered 
 .^none'e dream, foreboding misfortune, and he shuddered as 
 he wondered whether that dream might not, indeed, be a 
 warning voice. Was_ it mere chance that had led the 
 armor-bearer to the same place of refuge ? Or was it not 
 
294 ^ N O N B . 
 
 N 
 
 rather a predestined fate working out some settled and pre- 
 meditated purpose ? If so, was it a kind and beneficent 
 fate, acting simplj' with the generous wish that Mnone 
 should hear of her dear lord's just repentance ? Or was it 
 a revengeful Nemesis, which, with hateful eagerness to 
 punish some forgotten fault of her past life, had craftily 
 decoyed her into the power of a monster ? It must at least 
 be a fate — Cleotos thought — ^for such things do not come 
 by chance. 
 
 Carefully and noiselessly climbing, the steep ascent, he 
 returned to jEnone. The moon, which had been hitherto 
 concealed by drifting clouds, now shed a slender, flickering 
 ray of light through the grated aperture of the wall and 
 dimly revealed the interior ; — and he beheld JEnone, not 
 resting upon the stone step where he had left her, but 
 leaning over upon her bended knees and' with her head 
 bowed in her hands. 
 
 " Hush 1" she softly whispered. " I am giving thanks to 
 the gods for the glad tidings which I have heard. I know 
 it all, now." 
 
 And as she turned towards him, he could see, even in 
 that faint light, that her face was transfigured with radiant 
 new-born joy. 
 
 " H^ive heard all ?" he murmured. 
 
 "Not all, perhaps," she said, "but enough to assure me 
 that my lord's kind favor is once more turned towards me. 
 Shall I tell you how I learned it ? I was awaiting your 
 return hither and I heard from below a sudden loud laugh. 
 It came not from yourself, I -knew, and I stealthily glided 
 down to where I could listen. I am not dreaming, am I, 
 
is NONE. 295 
 
 .Cleotos ? Tell me that I am awake, and that the good news 
 is true. That man was my lord's armor-bearer, was he not ? 
 And he told you that my lord once more loved me, had 
 always loved me, and would take me to his heart again, — is 
 it not so ?" 
 
 "It is true, indeed, ^none. But did you hear further 
 what that man uttered ?" 
 
 " I heard him make threats of what he would do, if he 
 could succeed in finding me, though I know not wherein I 
 have offended him. But what of all that ? I fear him not. 
 Are not the gods now with me ? Surely they cannot have 
 suffered me to heaj these happy tidingS, with the intent 
 that I should be miserable at the last ? They are too 
 merciful for that. All we must do is to avoid that man. 
 He cannot find us, unless he comes up hither ; and if he 
 does, you will protect me, — will you not, Cleotos ?" 
 
 "With my life, if it is needful," he answered. "That 
 man is stronger than I am, but it seems as though, for your 
 safety, I should have twofold the strength needful to pre- 
 vail against him." 
 
 It seemed strange how little, in the overflowing joy of 
 her heart, she regarded the savage utterances of the armor- 
 bearer ; while, with Cleotos, the dangers springing there- 
 from nearly banished from his startled and less elastic 
 mind, every other feeling than despair. Why did they look 
 so differently upon the same thing, — the one with a thrilling 
 tumultuous transport of delight, which refused to admit the 
 perception of any sense of accompanying ill ; the other, with 
 a dread apprehension which weighed down his soul and 
 forbade his climbing to catch even a ray of that light of 
 
296 ^NONE. 
 
 • hope which shone so brilliantly upon her ? Was it the 
 premonition of a coming fate, leading them apart into the 
 separate paths of safety and destruction ? 
 
 "Yes, Cleotos, now are our sorrows over. Now do I 
 know that my lord loves me and will receive me again. In 
 what he has done, he was surely not himself We can 
 pardon much more than that, to those coming to us with 
 penitence in their hearts, can we not ? I know what he 
 will say, when I first again greet him. He will wish to ask 
 my forgiveness, but I will not suffer him to do so. I will 
 stop the words upon his lips with my tender love, ere he 
 has time to utter them, for why should I let him degrade 
 himself with unaccustomed avowals of repentance ? It is 
 so hard, indeed, for a nian to say that he has done wrong. 
 And you, too, Cleotos — you shall be pardoned and made 
 free, and you will remain ever after this our open trusted 
 friend and brother, — will you not ?" 
 
 In his single-minded solicitude for her safety, he had not 
 yet thought about himself, but now that the subject was 
 forced upon him, he sadly shook his head. Forgiven he 
 might be, and freed from the perils of the amphitheatre,- 
 since, with the innocence of the wife, his own innocence was, 
 of course, made manifest ; but here the bright picture must 
 end. Though inexperienced in the ways of the world, he 
 knew too much of human nature, to believe it possible that 
 Sergius Vanno could long endure the presence or sight of 
 one, whose name had once, even through mistake, been con- 
 nected in disparagement with his own. There might, in- 
 deed, be some show of gentle forbearance at the first, and 
 even a wish to make up with kindness for past harsh treat- 
 
iENONE. 297 
 
 > 
 
 ment ; but, in the end, other feelings would too surely 
 prevail. There would come dislike and hatred, and then, 
 perhaps, new oppressions. No ; there was but one way- 
 left for himself to act. He must guide ^none safely back 
 to the shadow of her home, and then, bidding her a last 
 farewell, must stealthily follow out the interrupted project 
 of a flight to his native land. But he forbore to tell her 
 what he now thought. It were not worth the while to 
 deprive her of the present happiness she felt in spreading 
 out her bright plans for the future. 
 
 " It will all be well, at the last, jEnone," he said. " I feel 
 that it will. Only let us first escape from this place." 
 
 Slowly he again descended the stairway, carefully feeling 
 his path before him, and sustaining his "mind by the faint 
 hope that, while they had been talking, the armor-bearer 
 might have awakened and have departed to commence his 
 promised search. But the hope was vain. The giant still 
 lay stretched clumsily across the narrow passage at the 
 bottom of the steps, in such a posture that it would be im- 
 possible for any one to pass without awakening him. Nor 
 was there any apparent prospect that he would soon depart 
 The wine that he had so bountifully drank seemed to have 
 made his slumber heavy, if not deep, and there appeared to 
 be but little chance that he would become fairly aroused 
 again to his situation before the return of light. Then, un 
 able to depart without the danger of detection, he would be 
 obliged to conceal himself more effectually in the deeper 
 recesses of the wall ; and what could hinder him from there 
 stumbling upon his prey ? 
 
 Once more, with sinking heart, Cleotos returned to ^none. 
 
298 iBNONE. 
 
 It was best, he thought, to tell her the truth at once ; and 
 taking her hand, he said ': 
 
 " There is, as yet, no escape. All departure from this 
 place is closed." 
 
 She did not, even now, give way to despair, as he had 
 expected. Her new-born happiness still seemed to make 
 her reckless of all possible misfertunes, and to endow her 
 with unwonted strength. Certainly, she was now the most 
 firm and hopeful of the two. 
 
 " Is there no other way, Gleotos ? Let us think." 
 
 He shook his head. There was no other way. 
 
 " This stairway winds still higher, Cleotos. We have not 
 traced it to the end. It may be that it will turn and de- 
 scend again, with another outlet." 
 
 "Where can it further go than 'to the roof itself, upon 
 ■which we should be yet further removed from help ?" 
 
 " Let us, at least, try, Gleotos." 
 
 And hand in hand they followed the winding of the steps. 
 It was but a short distance ; and then, as he had suggested, 
 they found themselves standing upon the flat temple roof, 
 and gazing up at the arched sky, once more overcast with 
 clouds which here and there would spread out for a moment 
 into broken rifts, letting a chance ray of the full moon steal 
 through, and again would close up into thicker and more 
 lowering folds than before. Beneath lay the great city, its 
 blockg of houses clustered together in dark undistinguisha- 
 ble masses, except where here and there a few dim lights in- 
 dicated some well-kept and wealthier locality. There was 
 but one place where more lavished brightness prevailed — 
 the Caesars' palace — whose windows glowed with light, and 
 
^NONE. 299 
 
 •whose central court was alive with men bearing great 
 torches. For there, as elsewhere, it was a festive night, 
 and Titus was giving welcome to the rulers and governors 
 of his provinces. There were also a few scattered lights 
 glimmering far off in the usually dark streets — singly or in 
 groups, as here and there a belated artisan, lamp in hand, 
 would plod his weary way through labyrinthian passages, 
 or a quick-moving and noisy band would brighten the walls 
 upon either side with the flaming of their collected torches. 
 One such group, for the moment, Cleotos mechanically 
 watched — tracing its course from a distance, and noting 
 how, as it came nearer, the torches would now separate and 
 wind through diverging narrow lanes, and again would 
 come together into one compact body when the several lanes 
 here and there united in some broader esplanade. Were 
 these the torches of revellers, who had sallied forth to pro- 
 voke midnight quarrels with loitering strangers — or of 
 slaves taking advantage of the festival license, in order to 
 perambulate the city in quest of booty — or of some wealthy 
 noble of the court, passing, with all the dignity of a large 
 retinue, to the imperial banquet ? Alas 1 what could it mat- 
 ter to Cleotos ? And he strove to withdraw his mind from 
 this useless and listless contemplation and to fix it more 
 suitably upon the emergencies of the moment. 
 
 "The cool breeze from the sea, gambolling over the plains, 
 fanned the two fugitives' cheeks, giving a grateful relief 
 from the heat of the close wall in which they had been so 
 long confined. But apart from thisj there seemed no change 
 in the hopelessness of their situation. And as Cleotos 
 gazed at his companion, perhaps with the weak purpose of 
 
300 jE N O N E . 
 
 gaining resolution from her strength, he saw that the 
 period of her fortitude had passed away, and that her face 
 was pallid with some new apprehension. 
 
 " Did I not tell you ?" she said, convulsively grasping his 
 hand. " Is not this my dream, speaking to me of death ? 
 See I The open sky overhead as I then saw it !" 
 
 He, too, shuddered as he recalled her description of her 
 vision. But it was no time to falter ; and, by a desperate 
 effort of will, he seemed at once to assume the strength 
 which she had lost. 
 
 " Have I not said that dreams are but the chance fancies 
 of a disordered brain ?" he responded. " Or, if it were 
 otherwise, do you not remember, that in your dream, hope 
 came to you at the last ? — And see 1" he cried, moved as by 
 a sudden inspiration. " Here is your hope, for here, indeed, 
 are the means of escape 1" 
 
 He pointed below. It happened that the ground made a 
 gradual ascent from the front to the rear of the temple, so 
 that, where they now stood, the height of the wall was not 
 as great as elsewhere, and, in that dim light, seemed yet 
 further foreshortened. The distance was still too far to 
 'jump or fall, and the most expert athlete could scarcely 
 hope to swing himself to the bottom and live ; but enough 
 had been taken from it to diminish much of that acute per- 
 ception of danger which, at a greater height, would 
 naturally overcome even a strong brain with giddiness, and 
 thus inordinately magnify the perils of a descent. At a 
 space of about four feet down the temple wall and parallel 
 with the roof ran a horizontal moulding, some eighteen 
 inches wide, and thus ample enough to serve for a tempo- 
 
^ N O N E . 301 
 
 rary foothold ; more especially as a person standing upon it 
 could, for further security, grasp the edge of the roof itself. 
 Below this moulding, the wall continued smooth and per- 
 pendicular to the ground, and hence, unless further assist- 
 ance could be obtained, the safety of one standing upon 
 that narrow edge would scarcely be as well assured as if 
 he were upon the roof itself But as the moulding was 
 carried around towards the corner of the building, it met 
 an angle beneath which jutted a piece of sculptured stone, 
 the top of a pilaster or other projection, a foot across, — and 
 beneath this again was another and a sloping roof, the 
 covering of some smaller building adjuncj. to the temple, 
 and after that more mouldings, — and so, in like manner, 
 there ensued a continuous ladder, a6 it were, of pilaster- 
 capitals, roofing, mouldings, and sculpture, reaching tb the 
 ground itself. Fearful as the experiment might at first 
 appear, it really needed but little close observation to show 
 the ease with which a person of well-balanced brain and 
 cool deliberate caution could climb from the ground to ^he 
 temple roof and back again ; the only hazardous portion of 
 the way being the passage along the highest moulding, a 
 task occupying, at the longest, but a few seconds. 
 
 " See, Mnone 1" cried Cleotos. "We have but to descend 
 upon that, and we shall be safe 1 Fear not to attempt it. 
 It is broad and firm ; and though the way may seem long, 
 yet it is not so very far, and I will go before to sustain 
 you." 
 
 Carefully he grasped the edge of the roof and lowered 
 himself down until he stood firmly upon the projecting 
 moulding. As he did so, he glanced below and saw that 
 
302 ^ N O N E . 
 
 the party of men with torches had come nearer, and perhaps 
 in a moment more might pass the temple. But what were 
 they to him? Should he delay on that account? They 
 might yet turn down some other avenue ; and even if they 
 passed, it was not likely that their flaming lights would 
 send a glare so far up the temple wall as to reveal the 
 fugitives. No, — ^time was too precious to be wasted in 
 awaiting the coming and going of a few wandering 
 revellers. Therefore, looking up to ^Enone, he gradually 
 soothed her fears and prevailed upon her with new assur- 
 ance of security, until she, too, gradually lowe;:ed herself 
 over the edge, and then, supported by his arm, prepared to 
 pass with him along the moulding. 
 
 " Oh, Cleotos, I fear to try I The way below me looks 
 dark and far — " 
 
 " Courage, dear .^Enone 1 The way is shorter than you 
 think, and, in a minute more, we will be at the end. Let 
 me lead you now." 
 
 " One moment, dear Cleotos ; let me strive to regain my 
 courage. But when I look upon this black abyss below 
 me, — oh ! let me first say one prayer to the gods !" 
 
 " Not to the gods, dear ^Enone, but to the only God, the 
 God of the Christians. He alone will help us, for, unlike 
 the others, he is not the God of the rich alone, but also of 
 the poor and suffering." 
 
 She moved her lips. Was it to the gods of Rome or to 
 the Christian God that she appealed for help ? Cleotos 
 could not tell ; but he could see that a strange, earnest 
 light glowed in her upturned face, as though her soul had 
 kindled with the sudden perception of some truth now for 
 
^NONE. 303 
 
 the first time comprehended by her. And when her lips 
 had ceased to move, he could see the same hopeful bright- 
 ness lingering like a twilight of thought upon her expres- 
 sion as she looked tenderly down upon him. 
 
 " Now let us descend, dear Cleotos, for again I feel 
 brave." 
 
 " Not yet ! not yet !" a harsh voice above her at that 
 moment cried out with startling vehemence. " Stop there, 
 and let me fii-st see who you are 1" 
 
 Was it chance again, — or a fate ? For there stood the 
 armor-bearer, who had too soon awakened, and, in restless 
 mood, had groped his way up the stone stairway. In that 
 dim light, as he now looked over the edge, he could at first 
 only distinguish the outline of a female figure ; but that 
 was enough for him, and, he grasped her by one hand. 
 
 " Let me descend," she murmured in afii'ight. 
 
 " Not till I have looked at you, my pretty one 1" he cried ; 
 and leaning still further over, he grasped her head in both 
 his hands and turned her face up full to his view. She 
 could not relax her hold upon the roof, and therefore had no 
 alternative to enduring his scrutiny until he might please 
 to let her go. The examination did not last long, for in an 
 instant he recognized her and proclaimed the discovery 
 with a loud oath. 
 
 " My mistress, — ^you here ? — And with that poor cup- 
 bearing slave, who has lied to me about you, pretending 
 that he knew not where you were hidden, and who surely 
 cannot deserve you as I do ? Did I not know that I was 
 destined to see you again ? By Hercules ! but the Pates 
 themselves must have contrived this lucky meeting 1" 
 
304 ^ N N B . 
 
 "Drurao — is it you who thus insult me?" she cried. 
 " How dariB you so speak and act ! Release me at once, 
 I say !" 
 
 "Release you?" he answered, grasping her only the 
 more firmly. "Nay, but that would be a sorry joke after 
 the gods had so kindly sent me to you ! Nor need you feel 
 that my love is an insult to you. Am I not now a free 
 man? And have not you been cast out from your own 
 house ? So then, you could do far worse than remain with 
 me. Surely you would not fly away with that poor weak 
 wretch beside you, when here stands the conqueror of the 
 strongest gladiator of the arena, offering his love. Stay, 
 therefore, and we will go off together to some other land 
 and lead a gay life indeed !" 
 
 As he spoke, he grasped her by the waist and prepared 
 to lift her back upon the roof A moment's delay in that, 
 however ; for now the men with the torches came still 
 nearer and were about to pass the temple, and faint mur- 
 murs of voices came up from among them. Strange, per- 
 haps, that, at the first, there came no motion or cry from 
 all that desperate party above ; but so it was. With the 
 armor-bea,rer, indeed, there could be but the one resource of 
 silence, until the torchlit strangers should have passed by 
 and be no longer able to hear and interrupt ; — with JEnone 
 there was the complete paralyzation of fear, rendering 
 utterance impossible ; — while Cleotos, knowing the savage 
 nature of the armor-bearer, and the straits into which he 
 might be driven if interfered with, and how little could be 
 done from below in prevention or anticipation of any sud- 
 den impulse of wild and excited desperation, felt that the 
 
^NONB. 305 
 
 only hope of safety lay in maintaining his own composure, 
 and trying what could be gained by gentle and soothing 
 entreaty. Thus, therefore, they remained in breathless 
 silence, — ^the armor-bearer half kneeling on the roof, with 
 his arm thrown around ^none, who, supported by Cleotos, 
 stood upon the narrow moulding ; when, of a sudden, 
 louder voices swelled up from the torchlit party now 
 directly beneath_ them and at once changed the current of 
 
 " Freedom and a hundred sestertia to the one who finds 
 her I" cried a well-known voice. 
 
 "It was near here that they say she was last seen," 
 added anpther. " Jupiter ! to think that a daughter of 
 the bouse of PortKenus should be wandering alone about 
 the /Streets at night !" 
 
 "My lord 1 My father' I Oh, my lord 1" cried .^Enone, at 
 once finding utterance as the familiar sounds fell upon her 
 ear. 
 
 The cry was heard, and the passing party at once ar- 
 rested its steps. Then the torches, raised high in the air, 
 disclosed the fugitives ; and with an oath, the armor-bearer 
 lifted himself upon his feet, dragging JEnone again upon 
 the roof. What now should he doX Detected and baffled, 
 ^driven to bay like a tiger in his lair, — ^with every evi- 
 dence of his violence thronging about him, — the past and 
 the present both combining for his destruction — should he 
 deliver himself meekly up and be thankful for whatever 
 mercy might be dea;lt out to him by the outraged lord below ? 
 Or should he resist to the last, and then unite all in one 
 common destruction with him, and thereby make his death 
 
306 iENONE. 
 
 more memorable ? Perhaps, if he had been able to reflect 
 witH cool deliberation, he would, after all, have chosen the 
 former course ; but the fumes of the wine which he had 
 drunk yet seethed in his brain, and produced in him an un- 
 wonted recklessness of all consequences. Why, indeed, 
 should he, a free man, submit to humiliation or ask 
 mercy of any one ? — he thought — playing with that newly 
 pWchased bauble of liberty, without considering that its 
 jealous and ill-timed maintenance was luring him to his 
 destruction. And while he thus, for a moment, balanced 
 himself between two courses, a harsh command from below 
 turned the scale. 
 
 " Freedom and wealth to whoever will slay that caitiff for 
 rae and rescue her !" cried Sergius Vanno. With that, the 
 torches flamed yet higher to cast a light upon the scene, 
 and twenty slaves leaped upon the first low range of roofs 
 and cornices, and began to climb like cats towards the top., 
 
 " Say you so ?" cried the desperate armor-bearer. " Then 
 look up and learn how little my death will profit you I" 
 
 With that he lifted .^none like a feather in his brawny 
 arms, and held her poised high in the air over the edge of 
 the roof 
 
 " Say you so, indeed?" he repeated. " Is it your wife that 
 you want, proud imperator ? What hinders me now from 
 flinging her down to greet you ? I dare not, do you think ? 
 By Pluto ! if you do not call back your slaves from climb- 
 ing up towards me — ^yes ! if you do not yourself go down 
 upon your knees and beg and whimper for her life like a 
 very slave yourself, I will loose my grasp and dash her 
 down in fragments at your feet 1" 
 
iE N O N B . 307 
 
 ^ A murmur of horror arose from below. Sergius, who had 
 himself sprung towards the ascent, stood as though palsied 
 — ^the slaves who, climbing upward, were now clinging in 
 various stages of advance to the different roofs and cor- 
 nices, discontinued their progress — none could tell but that 
 any instant would be rendered hideous with the threatened 
 tragedy — when a new and sudden diversion was given to the 
 scene. For, with one bound, Cleotos^ dragging himself up, 
 sprang upon the armor-bearer, crowded him back by the 
 mere force of the onset, compelled him in like manner to 
 drop his light burden upon the roof, bore him off his feet, and 
 now lay writhing with him in deadly struggle. One loud 
 shout below told that the threatened danger to ^none was, 
 for the moment, past ; and then, as the frenzied contest went 
 on above, the slaves once more began to swing themselves 
 from one ascent to another in order to gain the temple top. 
 For an instant the armor-bearer fought but sluggishly, 
 deeming it a careless and easy matter to overcome the 
 slight force brought against him. But, with the despera- 
 tion of the occasion, the vigor of Cleotos had increased two- 
 fold ; and soon the armor-bearer, not yet entirely recovered 
 from the enervating stupor of his wine, found himself 
 obliged, to put forth all his strength if he would hope to 
 release himself. The light activity of the one, animated by 
 loyal love, was a potent match for the brute power of the 
 other ; and, with almost equal success, they rolled over and 
 over upon the sloping roof, locked tightly in e^ch other's 
 grasp. And so, each unable to conquer and refusing to be 
 conquered, they strove together with blinding fury and con- 
 tinually slid nearer to the fatal edge. 
 
308 iE N N B . 
 
 " Eelease your hold 1'' hissed the armor-bearer, during a 
 momentary pause in the conflict. " Or do you wish that I 
 should fling you over into the street below, like a dead dog ?" 
 
 " We will go together, then I" gasped Cleotos, feeling 
 that at last his strength was failing him, and that another 
 moment might place ^none once more in the giant's power. 
 " I have sworn to protect her, and I will do so to the end. 
 I have sworn to give up my life for her, if needful ; and 
 what better time to sacrifice it than now ?" 
 
 There was a parting struggle. Then, with a half-stifled 
 cry, the closely-knit and writhing mass slid from the roof, 
 and striking upon the projecting moulding, bounded off and 
 fell with a crash into the street below. 
 
 A moment more — and the moon, which, until now, had 
 remained hidden behind a veil of clouds, as though reluc- 
 tant to look abroad until the tragedy should be complete, 
 glided serenely forth and poured a flood of light upon all 
 things around ; — upon palace and hovel — upon grove and 
 river — upon the narrow street where a group of slaves 
 stood with gathered torches and gazed affrighted upon a 
 silent broken mass which lay motionless upon the pavement 
 in their midst — and upon the temple roof, where other awe- 
 stricken slaves surrounded Sergius Vanno as he knelt be- 
 side Mnone, with her head pillowed upon his knee, and 
 called upon her io look up and forgive him I