"
"You have wealth and birth and wit and good prospects. I can see no
objection to you. But love--love is a thing for women to talk about."
"You are wrong, Appius. I can feel it in my soul. And, believe me, I
am no longer in Rome. I have found the gateway of a better world--like
that heaven they speak of in the Trastevere--full of peace and beauty."
"You have, indeed, been dreaming," said the other. "But, Vergilius,
there is one higher than I who shall choose her husband--the imperator.
Does he know you?"
"I have met him, of course, but do much fear he would not remember me."
"We may know shortly. Every seventh day this year he has sat, like a
beggar, at his gate asking for alms. To-day we shall see him there."
"It is an odd whim."
"Hush! you know the people as well as I, and he must please them," the
other whispered. "He must conceal his power if he would live out his
time. I will present you, and perhaps he may be gracious--ay, may even
bid you to his banquet."
"A modest home," said young Vergilius.
Now they were nearing the palace of that mild and quiet gentleman whose
name and title--Gaius Julius Caesar Octavianus Augustus--had terrified
the world; whose delicate hands flung the levin of his power to the far
boundaries of India and upper Gaul, to the distant shores of Spain and
Africa, and into deserts beyond the Euphrates.
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