"Say it all again, dear Vergilius--say it a hundred times," she whispered.
"My dear one, I love you more than I can say.

Now am I prepared to speak in deeds, in faithfulness, in devotion." "But, once more, why do you love me?
Why me ?" said she, moving aside with an air of preoccupation, her chin resting upon her hand, her elbow upon the gauze pillow of rose leaves in her lap.

"Is it my beauty more than myself ?" "No," he answered; "your beauty is intoxicating, and I thank the gods for it, but your sweet self, your soul, is more, far more to me than your grace and all your loveliness." She had dreamed of such love but never hoped for it, and now all the pretty tricks she had thought of had become as the mummery of fools.
She sat in silence for a little space, her eyes upon her girdle, and a new and serious look came into her face.
"I shall try, then," said she, presently--"I shall try to be noble.
But shall you--shall you truly throw your swords into the Tiber ?" "Would I might," said he, sadly.

"And now I must tell you--" He paused, and Arria turned quickly, her lips trembling as her color faded.
"In three days I go to Jerusalem," he added, "by command of the emperor." "For how long ?" she whispered, her eyes taking years upon them as the seconds flew.
"For two years." Quickly she hid her face in the cushions and her body quivered.

That old, familiar cry, which had in it the history and the doom of Rome, rang in the great halls around them--that cry of forsaken women.
"The iron foot is upon us," said he.