The old man's face darkened. The wine stood untouched a long time before the two who, during the conversation, had become perfectly sober. But their hearts, which the wine had opened, remained unveiled.

"Let me look at the ring more closely," said Mesembrius in a low tone.

Manlius held out his hand. The stone in the ring was a wonderfully carved cameo--the white bust of a beautiful woman, with Greek features, upon a purplish-yellow ground.

Mesembrius frowned gloomily as he examined the cameo; he averted his head, again gazed fixedly at the ring, and at last with a gesture of loathing, thrust it from him and bowed his gray head despairingly on his breast.

"Why do you look so sad?" asked Manlius. "Do you know this ring? Do you know its owner!"

"I know her," replied the old man in a hollow tone.

"Speak, who is it?"

"Who is it?" repeated Mesembrius with flashing eyes. "Who is it? A shameless hetaira, a loathsome courtesan, whose breath brings pestilence and contagion to the inhabitants of Rome, whose existence is a blot upon the work of creation; who has been cursed by her father so many times that, if all his execrations were fulfilled, no gra.s.s would grow upon the earth where she sets her foot, and compa.s.sion itself would turn from her in abhorrence."

The old man's last words were lost in a convulsive sob.

"Who is this woman?" cried Manlius, springing from his chair.

"This woman is my daughter," gasped Mesembrius.

"Glyceria?"

"_Abraxas!_" The old man fairly shouted the word used to ward off evil, and shuddered with loathing as he heard the name. Manlius drew the ring from his finger and went to the window, beneath which flowed the Tiber. Mesembrius guessed his intention.

"Don't throw it into the water! A fish might swallow it, the fishermen catch it, and it would again see the light of day. It will poison the Tiber, and whoever drinks from it will go mad. Keep it. I have an idea, on account of which you must wear this ring. You said you had done so until now for my sake."

"I kept it to save you, if need be."

"I thank you, Sinister. So you love me and my daughter. I thank you again and again; we will be grateful. In return, I will give my age, she her youth. We have always held you dear, always regarded you as one of our family. If you wish to guard us from peril--keep this ring--go with it where you are led--seek her who sent it--and kill her."

"Mesembrius! She is your daughter."

"If the basilisk is the child of the bird in whose nest it was hatched."

"But she desires to shield you from some unknown danger."

"For me the world has no danger except she herself! What pestilence, earthquake, tempest, and scaffold mean to the dwellers upon earth, her name embodies to me! If I could approach her I would kill her."

"She wishes to save you."

"Do not believe her. Every word that falls from her lips is a lie; she has deceived her father, she deceives the G.o.ds. Her face looks as innocent as a sleeping babe's. When she speaks you are enchanted; if you should let her go on, she would draw the dagger from your hand, bewitch, ensnare you, melt your heart by her accursed magic arts till you were as cowardly as a scourged slave. She does not paint her face like other women, but her soul; now she is luring you to her by the pretext that she wants to save me and Sophronia, and if you go to her and do not thrust your sword into her heart, ere she can speak one word, she will persuade you to kill us."

"Mesembrius, what has she done to you that you speak of her thus?"

"What has she done? She buried me ere I was dead! She dragged my grey beard in the mire! She poisoned my heart, robbed me of my sight and my blood to paint obscene pictures with them upon the walls of the lenocinium."

"Fury blinds you, Mesembrius."

"Why should it not blind me? Has a Roman no right to curse when people say to him in the Forum: 'Dismount from your horse, for your daughter has lost her honour!' Can I show myself anywhere in Rome without witnessing my disgrace? Is not her name prost.i.tuted in all the shameless verses of an aevius and Mavius? Did she not appear in the amphitheatre in a pantomime before the exulting, roaring populace?

Does she not go in broad daylight, with her shameless train, clad in a _tunica vitrea_ or _ventus textilis_? Does she not allow herself to be painted as _Venus vulgivava_? And is there an orgy, a baccha.n.a.lian festival, in which she does not play the loathsome part of queen? Oh, Manlius, it is terrible when the hair is grey to be unable to look men in the face, to hear everywhere and be forced to read in the eyes of all: 'This is Mesembrius who corrupts Rome! This man gave life to the monster who daily consumes the bread and drinks the blood of a hundred thousand starving people. Let us beware of approaching him.'

Oh, Manlius, believe me, you will yet kill this woman."

"I have never killed a woman, and I never shall."

"Remember my words. This Megaera loves you, and she knows full well that you love another. That this other is her sister will not trouble her; these satiated Messalinas are fastidious, even in blood. Ordinary blood no longer tickles their palates; that of their own kindred is sweetest."

"Guard your tongue from omens!"

"I feel what I say, Manlius. It would be better for you to slay this woman from caution than for vengeance. When you see a serpent, you crush it, do you not, without waiting till it strikes its fangs into your flesh, and gives you reason to destroy it?"

"You are a father, Mesembrius. I understand your grief, but do not share it."

"You will become a husband, and then you will share it."

"How can you expect me to hate, old friend, after you have rendered me happy? You talk of your wrath to a sleeper dreaming of his bliss, while your furious words disturb the stillness of the night. From all you say I realize only that I shall possess Sophronia's love. This word, this thought inspirited me, even when the war cries of the fierce Sarmatians were thundering in my ears, even during the nocturnal attacks of the legions, and in the scorching sunshine of Persian battle-fields. I beheld her lovely face in the river which, swollen by streams of blood, overflowed its banks. It hovers before me now while you talk of blood, and amid your savage speech I hear but one thing--that she will be mine."

"Now I perceive the truth of the words that love makes us blind."

"And hate reckless, you must add."

"May the G.o.ds grant that you are right; that some day the whole world may say: 'Mesembrius, the daughter whom you disowned is pure as Diana, and all you said of her was slander, blind imagination!' I--but even then I would say that you must kill her, Manlius, for she has deceived the whole world!"

The old man's eyes were bloodshot; excitement had so wrought upon his whole nervous system that he trembled from head to foot, and when he rose from the triclinium he gripped the arm with such force that the ivory sphinx remained in his hand.

"Slaves, bring torches!" he shouted loudly, forgetting that he usually spoke with asthmatic panting. "Let us go to rest, Manlius; it is long past midnight. May you dream of your love as I shall of my hate."

He left the pavilion as he spoke, and moved firmly, with head erect, through the long garden to his villa, without remembering that he could not walk a step on account of his gout. The slaves pushed his empty chair behind him.

Manlius remained a long time in the triclinium, lost in thought.

Leaning over the sill of the window above the Tiber he gazed dreamily into the waves, flooded with silver by the rising moon. Black boats glittered in her rays along the sh.o.r.e, and the notes of a mournful hymn echoed from the distance through the still air. The outlines of a woman's white-robed figure were visible in one of the boats. Manlius was reflecting upon the emotions that filled his heart. He fancied he was dreaming, as we sometimes dream that we are awake, and now imagined that he was dreaming of Sophronia's gentle, musing face.

He had no rest; some indescribable feeling oppressed his heart. His excited soul longed for the open air, and, taking his sword, he wrapped his _paludamentum_ around him, entered one of the skiffs fastened under the window, and, loosing it from the chain, rowed in the direction of the mysterious melody.

CHAPTER II.

What a wonderful phenomenon it was that truth should triumph over fiction, and the simple doctrines of the Cross should conquer delusive mythology!

The religion of the poets, the dreamy groves, the flower-strewn sh.o.r.e, the chosen deities of the sunlit island worlds, who in the enthusiasm of this artistic nature rose from the foam of the sea, were pervaded by the fragrance of flowers, immortalized as stars. Warm ideal figures united with mankind by sweet love dalliance. How all this fabric vanished from the arms of its worshippers at one word from the mighty Being who, throned on a measureless height, is yet near to every human creature, whom no one can see, but everyone can feel, and who is the G.o.d of the stars as well as of the lilies of the field.

How the altars of the Olympian G.o.ds gradually grew cold, how the rose garlands vanished from the golden plinths, how the people disappeared from the perfumed halls to hear beneath the open sky, illumined by glowing sunlight, the words of an invisible truth.

This sky, this sunlit sky was the mystery of mysteries! The night-sky, with its thousand stars, was the mythological heaven; that of the day belonged to the faith of the truth indivisible. Neither the depth nor the height of the latter can be measured. We only feel the beneficent warmth, and from the infinite blue distance an eternal hope tells the heart that beyond this sky is another and a better world, of which this earth is only the shadow; and the darker, the more gloomy are the shadows here, the more radiant is the truth there.