Part 43 (2/2)
The moment was too supreme for words. Even the whisper, ”I love thee!”
died upon their lips. He held her close to him, her dear head resting on his shoulder, his hand upon her cheek, the perfume of her loveliness mounting to his nostrils and making his senses reel with its exquisite fragrance.
This one great moment was love's, and it was love's alone. Each had forgotten strife, rebellion, ambition, the fugitive Caesar and the murmuring people. Each only remembered the other and the perfect flavour of that first lingering kiss.
Whatever life held for them hereafter, glory or shame, joy or regret, this moment remained unspoiled, perfect in its esctasy, the world but a dream, love the only reality.
Overhead the thunder rolled at intervals, dull and distant now, with occasional flashes of vivid lightning which lit up Dea's golden hair and the round, bare shoulder which emerged above the tunic. Her face was in shadow; she lay against his heart like a young bird that has found its nest.
Then he awoke from this ecstasy.
”The Caesar?” he said wildly, ”where is the Caesar?”
”Near me now, dear Lord,” she murmured looking up at him with a smile; ”my head is on his shoulder and I can hear the beating of his heart.”
”The Caesar, Augusta,” he said more insistently, and now he held her away from him, her two hands still in his and held against his breast, but she at an arm's length from him.
”Augusta,” he reiterated, ”I implore thee! Where is the Caesar?”
”Hid in the Palace of Augustus, whining like a coward for his vanished power.... Forget him, my dear lord ... he is not worthy of thy thoughts.... Whither art going?” she added suddenly, for with gentle force he had disengaged his hands from hers and had turned toward the door.
”To the Caesar, dear heart,” he said simply; ”an he is a fugitive he hath need of friends: an he is afraid, he hath need of courage.”
”Thou'lt not go to him, dear lord,” she exclaimed indignantly, and her hands, strong and firm, fastened themselves on his arm. ”A coward, I tell thee ... a madman ... a tyrant ...”
”The Caesar, Augusta,” he retorted; ”deign to let me go to him.”
”Thou'rt mad, Taurus Antinor! Fever is in thy veins and doth cloud the clearness of thy brain.... Hast not heard the people? They vow vengeance on him.... 'Tis on thee they call ... thou art their chosen, their anointed; the people call to thee. It is thou whom they acclaim.”
”To-morrow,” he said more gently, ”they will have forgotten their disloyalty. To-morrow they will have forgotten me ... they will think me dead ... dead will I be to them to-morrow.”
”Nay! but to-day,” she urged, ”to-day is thine and mine.... The praetorian praefect is here and the others ... the choice rests with me and my choice is made.... Rome even now rings from end to end with thy name: 'Hail Taurus Antinor Caesar! Hail!' ... Hast no ambition?” she cried, for at her words he had remained cold and still.
”None,” he replied gently, ”but so to help the Caesar, that he may gain the love of his people by acts of grace and mercy, and to see the wings of peace once more spread over the seven hills of Rome.”
With a firm yet exquisitely tender touch he took her clinging hands in his, forcing her to release her grip on his arm. On her trembling fingers then he pressed a burning, lingering kiss.
”Thou art not going!” she cried.
”To the Caesar, O my soul! He hath need of me! He has mine oath; my loyalty is his.”
”A madman and a tyrant. If thou goest to him he will kill thee!... his guard is with him ... he will kill thee!”
”That is as G.o.d wills...!”
”Thy G.o.d!” she retorted vehemently, ”thy G.o.d! Doth he wish to part us?
Is my love naught that he should wish thee to spurn it...?”
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