"Let it bear you up as I leave the palace.

Promise you will not cry out.

If you do, my beloved, I shall hear always the sound of mourning when I think of you." "Then I shall not weep," said she, bravely, but with a little quiver in her voice.
She knew the old story of a young man's love--how often he went away with sweet words, to return, if ever, hardened to stern trials and bloody work, his vows long forgotten.
"For your sake, dear Vergilius, I will be calm," she added.
"Now sit here," said he, as he led her to the heap of cushions, "just as I saw you a little time ago.

Rest your chin upon your hands.
There; now your soul is in your eyes.

Let me see only this picture as I go." He took a handful of her curls and let them fall upon her shoulders.
Then he crowned her with a sprig of vervain from a vase near by.
"I will not weep--I will not weep," she repeated, her voice trembling as he touched her hair.
He moved backward slowly, as one might leave a queen.