"You are a man, and perhaps you now think that so long as you were young and free to wander about the world you would not have acted differently from him--it is a man's privilege; but if you could look into my soul or feel with the heart of a woman, you would think differently.

Like the sand of the desert which is blown over the meadows and turns all the fresh verdure to a hideous brown-like a storm that transforms the blue mirror of the sea into a crisped chaos of black whirl pools and foaming ferment, this man's imperious audacity has cruelly troubled my peace of heart.

Four times his eyes pursued me in the processions; yesterday I still did not recognize my danger, but to-day--I must tell you, for you are like a father to me, and who else in the world can I confide in ?--to-day I was able to avoid his gaze, and yet all through long endless hours of the festival I felt his eyes constantly seeking mine.

I should have been certain I was under no delusion, even if Publius Scipio--but what business has his name on my lips ?--even if the Roman had not boasted to you of his attacks on a defenceless girl.

And to think that you, you of all others, should have become his ally! But you would not, no indeed you would not, if you knew how I felt at the procession while I was looking down at the ground, and knew that his very look desecrated me like the rain that washed all the blossoms off the young vine-shoots last year.