"You shall not call me love," said she--"not yet. You have not told me
that you love me."
"I told all who were at the palace of the great father."
"But you have not told me, son of Varro."
"I do love you." He was approaching.
"Hush! Not now," she answered, taking his hand in hers--temporizing.
"Come, I will race with you."
She ran, leading him, with quick, pattering feet through an inner hall
and up the long triclinium. There, presently, she threw herself upon
the heap of cushions.
"Now, sit," said she, draping her robe and then feeling her hair that
was aglow with jewels.
A graceful and charming creature was this child of the new empire, a
noble beauty in her face and form, the value of a small kingdom on her
body. "Not so near," said she, as he complied. "Now, son of my
father's friend, say what you will and quickly."
"I love you," he began to say.
"Wait," she whispered, stopping him as she turned, looking up and down
the great hall. "It is for me alone. I will not share the words with
any other.
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