Part 8 (2/2)

”What I predicted,” replied the augur with dignity. ”The Senate would not accept the abdication, and compelled the immortal Carinus to continue to wear the purple.”

Mesembrius was obliged to lean on his crutches again.

”Oh, my poor feet! Oh, this terrible gout in my knees! Foolish old man that I am; what have I been saying? I swing myself on a horse? If I could at least sit comfortably in my wheel-chair! Such a foolish old fellow! How could I go to war when I see so badly that I cannot distinguish friend from foe? Laugh at me, my dear friends; laugh at such a silly old man. Oh, my feet----”

And, groaning painfully, he dragged himself forward. Then Manlius met him.

”Have you learned anything?” he asked.

”To-morrow I will force myself into Carinus's presence. And you?”

”I will seek Glyceria.”

”That you may kill her ere she can speak.”

”Have no anxiety. Even if she could use magic arts, she would die. We will meet in Carinus's atrium to-morrow. Be provided with a good sword.”

Manlius went to the _Pons Sacer_.

Before the statue of Triton sat the old woman who had given him the ring. When she saw Manlius she rose and went to meet him.

”Have you the ring with you, my lord?” she asked.

”Look at it.”

”Will you go with me?”

”That is the purpose of my coming here.”

”I have waited for you four days. Why did you not appear sooner?”

”Pleasure never comes too late,” replied Manlius bitterly, and allowed himself to be conducted through gardens, byways, and covered pa.s.sages till his guide opened a small bronze gate, and taking him by the hand, led him through a dark corridor into a circular hall, adorned with pillars and lighted by a single round window above.

Here the old woman left him and went to summon her mistress.

Manlius looked around him. He had imagined the apartment of a Roman lady an entirely different room. He had expected to see jasper columns, garlanded with climbing plants, fountains perfumed with rose water, representations of frivolous love scenes, an atmosphere saturated with heavy fragrance, purple couches, and silver mirrors, and instead he found himself in a lofty, n.o.ble, temple-like hall, whose walls were adorned with masterly pictures of battles and heroes, while in the centre stood the marble bust of a bald-headed old man.

”Perhaps Glyceria does not even live here,” he thought, and just at that moment heard his name uttered behind him. He turned. Before him stood a pale, slender woman, in a simple snow-white robe, whose folds concealed her figure up to her chin and covered her arms to the wrists. This was not the alluring costume that suited a love adventure. The face was still less seductive. Deep, despairing, consuming grief, that blight of beauty, was expressed in every feature.

Manlius recognised Glyceria. His blood rushed feverishly to his temples, and he convulsively clutched the hilt of his sword. Yet he did not wish to kill her thus. He thought that this, too, was only a new variety of the arts of temptation in which women are such adepts.

When a libertine is to be attracted, the graces are called to aid; if it is a hero, Minerva must be summoned to help. Clothes, moods, will correspond with the character of the chosen individual; nay, even the features will be altered so that they will appear different to every one. He could not kill her while she looked so sad; he must await the moment when she began to speak to him of her love to thrust his sword into her heart at the first yearning smile.

Pausing with drooping head, three paces from Manlius, the lady faltered almost too low for him to hear:

<script>