href="@public@vhost@g@gutenberg@html@files@47222@[email protected]#Footnote_24" class="fnanchor pginternal" id="FNanchor_24" tag="{http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml}a">[24] of fine ladies, in my eyes, at least, that is to his advantage.”

“My dear, good, little father,” said the criminal, “do not take a thoughtless speech so seriously; I cannot bear to hear you speak to me so ungraciously—and your eyes are not so kind and sweet as usual, and here on your forehead—just here—there is an ugly line that makes you look so much older....”

She threw her round, rosy arms round his neck, and stroked his cheek lovingly.

“Come, be kind again to your little girl—and I will declare that your long-nosed—oh! I forgot—your excellent friend, Sextus Furius, is delightful.” Titus Claudius gently released himself; he could not help smiling.

“It is impossible to scold you, you little imp,” he said shaking his head. “I am afraid I spoil you.”

And he once more glanced up at the blue sky, as though he grudged having to exchange the airy peristyle for the senate-house. Then, waving them a farewell, he went off to his own rooms.

“But he is a perfect horror, all the same,” Lucilia repeated, when her father was out of hearing. “I can tell you, Mother dear, I could not kiss him for a thousand millions, much less marry him! And is this long-nosed, weak-kneed creature to be the husband of our Claudia?”

“Silence, silly child,” said Octavia with affected severity. “Your father’s will is our law. He has his own reasons for whatever he decides on.”

“You are only making believe,” said Lucilia. “You know you like him no better than I do, and you, too, grieve over the odious fancy....”

“Lucilia!”

“Well ... is one to bite one’s tongue out simply from respect of persons? My father often has fancies. What should Claudia have to do with that wooden simpleton? And he is as cowardly as a whimpering woman! Cornelia told me so—she heard it from her uncle.”

“It is not every one, that has the headstrong spirit of Cinna.”

“A Scythian, who simply cut down all before him, his wife into the bargain, rather than a milksop, that you can knock down with a feather!”

“You know nothing about it, child. But where is Claudia? Why has she left us?”

“She has gone to her own room, I daresay, to cry there. Since yesterday, when my father told her of his determination, she has practised such complete self-control, that her grief must have its way at last.”

But Lucilia was mistaken. Claudia had followed her father, and went into his room close on his heels.

“What do you want?” he asked in surprise, seeing his daughter stand before him, pale, calm, and stately.

“I have a confession to make to you, which has been on my lips ever since yesterday.”

“Well?” said the high-priest, hardly attending.

“Send away the servants.”

“Child, I have no time now for any discussions; in twenty minutes....”

“I will not detain you.” The Flamen signed to the slaves, who disappeared with an enquiring glance at the young girl’s unusually serious face and manner.

“Now—what have you to say?” he asked, when they were alone.

“Father,” said Claudia in a low, but resolute tone, “I cannot marry Sextus Furius.”

“Folly!”

“It is not folly—it is as I say.”

“Indeed! and why not?”

“Because I do not care for him.”

“An excellent reason! Why, you hardly know him; try first to understand his worth.”

“I solemnly assure you it is quite in vain. My heart is given away—I love Caius Aurelius Menapius.”

“What!” cried the priest sternly. “A provincial, a man of no birth or family!”

“He is a Roman knight.”

“A knight—and who is not a knight now-a-days? A man is a knight, if he is anything but a laborer or a slave. Besides, is not his mother descended from some barbarian tribe?”

“From the tribe, that could conquer Varus.”

“So much the worse. It grieves me to have to tell you, that I will never submit to such a vagary.”

“But let me ask you one thing: do you not esteem Caius Aurelius?”

“You know I do. From the first I have thought most highly of him. But, by Jupiter! To regard him as my guest is one thing—as a suitor for my daughter’s hand is quite another!”

“Father, if you part me from Caius Aurelius, I shall never be happy again. He has my promise.”

Her tone, and, yet more, the sparkle in her eyes betrayed such settled determination, that the high-priest was staggered. The thought flashed upon him that, after all, not everything in the world could be calculated by the inexorable laws of logic; the possibility of Claudia’s choosing for herself he had never taken into consideration. And now this possibility—nay, actuality—stood before him so pressingly, in the form of a pair of tearful, suppliant eyes, that he at once lost his grasp of the situation. As for Claudia herself, her forced calmness was fast giving way before the storm of excitement, which shook every fibre of her slender frame.

“Claudia, my darling,” stammered the Flamen, clasping his child in his arms, “you are trembling and tearful; but come, come, be reasonable. There, lay your head on my shoulder, and tell me, calmly and without tears, what is troubling your heart? I am your father, my child, and not a tyrant. Do you hear, my Claudia?”

She looked up like a flower after a thunder-shower—a radiance of a grateful smile lighted up her features.

“You are so good!” she said, tenderly. “Forgive me, if I cannot help causing you trouble.”

“Speak, my child; tell me everything. But, no; for the present leave me. You are agitated, and time presses. We will talk it all over—this very evening.—Just now I have not leisure—I belong to my country. Meanwhile I must ask you one thing: do not be too abrupt with Sextus Furius. Promise me that, dear Claudia.”

“With all my heart.”

She kissed her father eagerly and left the room.

“No,” said the priest half-aloud, “she must not and shall not be unhappy. I never before saw her like this; that anguish came from the bottom of her heart. I know her; I understand her! The dignity of my name! Yes, it is dear to me, and sacred as a gift bestowed by the gods—but at that price! Never. My heart swelled as she clung to me, crying in my arms. And yet what a joy to me, in spite of sorrow! Ah, my children! how you have grown to be part of my very soul! Every life-throb of my heart is doubled by your lives! I thank Thee, all-merciful giver, for so precious a blessing—every cloud of incense, that rises from thine altar, wafts up my fervent thanks to thy throne!”

For a few minutes he stood absorbed in thought; then he called his slaves to dress him.

A quarter of an hour later Titus Claudius was at the temple of Jupiter Capitolinus, where the Senate was to sit.

Almost all the Fathers had met on this occasion. Here sat Nerva, a noble and reverend figure, mild, but majestic as Jove; there, bending over his rolled book and writing tablets, sat Cornelius Cinna, the chief opponent of the proposed law; there again sat Sextus Furius, shy and hesitating, but in earnest discussion with his neighbor, evidently endeavoring to display a feverish anxiety that the new decree should be passed. On every side were snow-white togas, grave and dignified faces, a strangely-excited air of suspense. The scribes—the writers of protocols—sat at tables prepared to write, while at the entrances stood the lictors