"'Young man,' said the father--and his eyes shone--'rise and look
yonder. Do you see the citadel? Under its marble floor there is a
grave. It is that of one who kissed a vestal and was buried alive.
There are sacred people in Rome, and among them is this daughter of my
beloved Publius. Go you to your palace, son of Herod, and, hereafter,
forget not that you are in Rome.'
"He was angry, and I, so frightened! Then he took me home and said he
would be my father, and that in good time he would choose a husband for
me."
"The gods grant that he choose me."
"The gods forbid it, son of Varro."
"And why?"
Slowly and with assumed severity she spoke.
"Because--I--do--not--love--you."
"Cruel one!" said he, turning and biting his lips. "Your words are as
the blow of the pilum."
"Have they indeed wounded you?" She touched his hand with a look of
sympathy.
"They have made me sick at heart."
"Then would I not believe them," said she, tenderly, slipping her
slender fingers into his.
He pressed her hand. "And do you, then, love me?"
"No--I--do--not--love--you.
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