To this terrace Zoe had retired.

With eyes dimmed with fond and melancholy tears, she leaned over the balustrade, to catch the last glimpse of the departing form of Caesar, as it grew more and more indistinct in the moonlight.

Had he any thought of her?
Any love for her?
He, the favourite of the high-born beauties of Rome, the most splendid, the most graceful, the most eloquent of its nobles?
It could not be.

His voice had, indeed, been touchingly soft whenever he addressed her.

There had been a fascinating tenderness even in the vivacity of his look and conversation.