"And you would see a maidens' frolic?" said one to Vergilius.
Then said he: "Maidens are ever a delight to me."
"Ay, they make you to forget," said the girl.
He thought a moment before answering. "It may be true," said he. "But
they keep you in mind of the power of woman."
Strains of the lyre broke in upon them. Suddenly the centre of the
great room was thronged with maidens. The young tribune was full of
wonder, knowing not whence they had come. There was a wreath of roses
on each brow, and as they gathered in even rank with varicolored robes
upon them, they reminded the knight of garden walls in Velitrae.
Quickly they began to mingle, with feet tripping lightly, with bodies
bending to display their charms. Threadlike, wavering gleams of ruby,
pearl, and sapphire seemed to weave a net upon them. Such a scene
appealed to the love of beauty in Vergilius. It awoke dying but
delightful memories of the pagan capital--splendors of form and color,
glowing eyes and pretty frolic.
"O Venus, mother of love!" he whispered, turning to admire a statue in
the dim-lit corner where he stood.
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