Kitabı oku: «Neæra. A Tale of Ancient Rome», sayfa 13

He disappeared, and by and by rejoined Tucca at the place appointed, and gave him the tablets, to all appearance untouched. In the meantime, it had been an easy matter for his nimble and expert fingers to open the missive, note its contents, and fasten it up as before, with thread and wax from the same stock. The wine-grower perceived, to his inward satisfaction, that the epistle bore no sign of being meddled with, and went on his way to deliver it. He left the town on his left hand, and walked on until he arrived at the outer gate of the villa of Jove, just as Afer and his patron and their servants were turning their steps thither, as described. The quick eye of the knight caught sight of the old man as soon as he appeared on the inside of the enclosure trudging toward the barrack-houses.

‘Look!’ he exclaimed in a low voice, nudging the Prefect to enforce attention, ‘look at yon old man. That is no other than Tucca, at whose house the fair Plautia is lodged. What does he up here? It would be worth while knowing, I’ll warrant! A thousand pounds, but if we could get to know we should need little more.’

‘But how?’

‘Quick! There is time, and he does not notice us. Send and bid yon Pretorian stop him and ask his business inside the villa. Let your slave linger by and listen.’

Sejanus turned hastily and spoke to his slave Lygdus, who hastened to carry the order to the sentinel, whose post was one of mere discipline, since the townspeople came and went, and did their trafficking without the least ceremony, except at the entrances of the Imperial residence itself, which were closely watched.

The party then turned their steps and appeared to stroll gently back, as if in earnest talk. They saw the sentinel stop the wine-grower by placing his spear across his body. Lygdus stood by, and, after a brief parley, the old man was suffered to proceed. He finally disappeared into the door of the building which led to the officers’ quarters.

‘Pooh, ’tis only some concern of his own,’ remarked Sejanus, – ‘buying or selling. Well, what did yonder fellow want?’ he said to Lygdus, who came up. ‘He seems a dirty, disreputable knave to wander about here without question.’

‘He is charged with a letter to deliver to the Centurion Martialis, so please your highness,’ replied the Nubian slave.

‘From whom?’ demanded his master.

‘I do not know. I did not think it right to inquire into anything of the Centurion’s affairs without authority, so I did not ask.’

‘Humph! Quite right, Lygdus; but did you see the tablets? He might have been lying.’

‘I saw them when the guard demanded to see them. The man is Tucca, one of the oldest islanders and wine-growers. He is well known.’

‘Is he, indeed? I crave his pardon, but he looked most villainously to my eyes. He should get himself a better tunic. But what seemed the letter like – the writing?’

‘It was quite strange to me.’

‘It is necessary that I see it. The Centurion has left the island till evening – you understand. We will go in again for a space. Come!’

Lygdus bent his head and retired to the rear, until Sejanus and his confidant had re-entered the officers’ quarters. Then in a minute he appeared before the Prefect and the knight with the ill-fated epistle in his hands.

‘No one saw you, Lygdus?’ said Sejanus.

‘No one. The Centurion’s room is empty, and this was lying on his couch.’

‘Warm water and open it.’

The slave brought a cup of hot water, and, by its aid, he softened the wax and removed the thread in a most dexterous manner, which bore strong evidence that it was not the first time such a task had been required of him.

The handwriting was large and bold, but palpably disguised. The keen eyes who perused it were easily assured of that.

‘I fancy we have seen something like the turn of these characters before,’ said Afer drily; ‘the varnish is very thinly laid on.’

The epistle was addressed to L. Martialis, Centurion, Villa Jovis. They opened it and read: —

‘One who has braved discomfort and peril desires to see you, Centurion. Close by the path which leads down to the southern landing there is a white rock. I shall await you there at nightfall. As you have a heart do not fail me!’

They looked at each other, and the Prefect broke into a laugh, which was, however, forced and disgusted. The knight smiled inwardly.

‘There!’ uttered Sejanus, ‘I told you I knew not. I am right and you are wrong. It is only thus one can have the chance, sometimes, to fathom what is lowermost in the mind of a woman. She is in love with Martialis! Who would have dreamt of it? A mere Centurion to ensnare the proud goddess!’

‘It is, at the least, very extraordinary; but it does not follow that she is bitten with this soldier.’

‘It is so likely that I accept the construction very easily.’

‘There is one comfort; it may lead to fratricide,’ muttered Afer.

‘What do you say, Afer?’ asked the Prefect.

‘I say it is a bitter pill for the other brother.’

‘Humph!’ said his patron, too sulky in his wounded self-conceit to care about anybody else.

He clapped his hands for Lygdus, and ordered him to restore the tablets to their former state, in readiness for their owner.

‘Come, we can go now. There is one thing certain, that we must be somewhere in the close vicinity of that same white rock this night.’

CHAPTER VI

We noticed Martialis in the last chapter issuing from the villa Jovis. The sparkle in his eye and the half smile on his lips, as he hummed an air during his rapid walk down to the little southern landing-place, betokened an errand of an agreeable nature. He rowed himself across to the mainland in a fisherman’s skiff, and, thence, taking the road to Surrentum, was not long ere he stood in the shop of Masthlion, with the joyful and surprised Neæra in his arms.

‘You grow more beautiful each time I see you, Neæra,’ he said, pressing a kiss on her lips.

‘Foolish!’ she murmured, smiling, and sinking her eyes before his fervent gaze. ‘And you, Lucius,’ she added, laying the point of her finger on his toga, ‘you are no Centurion to-day – you are in plain woollen – you are not for the road?’

‘I have reached the end of my journey,’ he replied, drawing her nearer.

‘Your breastplate and cloak become you the best, but they mean haste away. This is the most welcome to me, for it is your own dress and – ’

‘And says that, for a time at least, its wearer is his own master, to spend his leisure as he lists,’ said Martialis, finishing her speech and fondling the hand which rested on the bosom of his garment. ‘I have come here, foolish or not, to pass the few hours at my command. Will you offer me no more hospitality than this shop can give?’

‘Come,’ she said, giving him a divine smile, and holding out her hand to lead him inside; ‘but ah, Lucius, we are so poor and simple!’

The little dwelling-room, under the industrious and fastidious hands of herself and her mother, was seldom far removed from a state of scrupulous cleanliness and genial comfort. The articles of furniture which it contained were well worn, but speckless; and a bright wood fire, burning in a brazier, cheered and warmed the senses of an in-comer. At the door Neæra ran abruptly off, and her lover was left to the company of the patient, mild-eyed Tibia, her mother. The latter was engaged in scrubbing a brazen pot into a sunlike lustre, and although there were grounds for reasonable familiarity of bearing toward her visitor, yet the attempt came awkwardly and uncomfortably enough. This wore off, however, in a measure with the free, easy bearing of the young man, who sat and warmed himself at the fireside. When Neæra subsequently reappeared, she shone upon him in the best robes her slender wardrobe could furnish. They were modest and simple indeed. A few coins were all their worth, but poor as they were, her beauty made them seem handsome. Fresh and neat from her toilet, with her clear delicately-tinted skin and glossy hair, her person seemed to diffuse a delicious sense of purity and sweetness. She smiled upon the Centurion in the proud consciousness of her charms, and the dame Tibia, also, could not help paying her an especial look of approval.

‘How the child is growing into a woman,’ she murmured beneath her breath.

Neæra reached forth her hand to her lover, and the drapery of her tunic, falling back a little, displayed a rounded arm and wrist of the whiteness of the snowdrift, to which the tinge of toil-accustomed fingers bore a slight contrast.

‘Come,’ she said; ‘we will go and see my father.’

Taking his hand she led him to the workshop in the rear of the house, abutting on the patch of garden. On trying to open the door they found it fast, but they could hear the movements of the potter within. Neæra knocked and called upon her father loudly.

The bolt was drawn within, and they stood face to face with Masthlion, who was surprised at seeing his daughter’s companion.

‘Welcome, Centurion,’ he said. ‘Though Neæra had little need to bring you in here amid the clay of a potter’s shop.’

The room was of good size, and the floor consisted of hard-trodden earth. A window, or rather an opening which could be closed by a shutter, was on one side, and against it stood a bench, on which was a litter of tools, as well as one or two unfinished clay models of figures, with which Masthlion was fond of varying his time. In the centre of the floor was the potter’s wheel, which gave him his legitimate occupation. A large oven stood on the other side, and close by was also a small furnace. As there were to be seen lumps of unshaped glass lying scattered about in various parts of the workshop, as well as relics of glass bottles and other vessels, together with the tools by which they were produced, it was obvious, that the art of glass-making formed also a pursuit of the potter, either as a hobby, or as a regular avocation. Masthlion himself was attired in his working clothes, and was smeared with clay and grime of the furnace from head to foot. From a habit of frequently drawing his hand across his forehead, his ample brow was of the colour of one of the little images on the bench; and, as this action was sometimes varied by a similar attention to other parts of his features, his face, in complexion, was little removed from the hue of his clothes. Neæra clasped her hands across his shoulder and leant her face toward his, for she was as tall, if not a little above his stature. The contrast between her lovely pure countenance and his oddly clay-daubed visage was so comical that Martialis smiled.

‘Come, father,’ said Neæra in his ear; ‘you have wrought enough for to-day. It is not often we have a visitor.’

‘Such a visitor – no!’ replied Masthlion, smiling. ‘Away! Leave me in my den – you want my room, not my company. Send your mother in here also, and keep the house yourselves.’

‘No, no!’

‘Stand off, girl, or farewell to your finery – think you that the soil on me is cleaner than that on the floor?’

He pushed her gently away from him and looked her over with a fond gaze of admiration. ‘Go, and trouble me not – you have troubled me enough already.’

‘I have come this day to relieve you of her,’ interposed Martialis.

‘Eh?’ cried Masthlion, with a mighty start at this apt and sudden speech. His face flushed and paled under its coating of clay, and a momentary tremor passed through him, whilst the fair skin of Neæra flooded crimson, and her eyes fell.

‘Or, at least, to determine when your burden shall be lightened,’ added the young soldier.

‘Come, come; no more of this, Centurion,’ returned the potter, with a slight laugh, which had no shadow of gaiety in it, but only nervousness and pain. But the young man shook his head.

‘Be not so hasty to bereave us of what little consolation we have of our lives,’ added the potter.

‘The bereavement need not be so complete as you seem to think,’ said Martialis.

‘She and you in Rome, and we in Surrentum,’ sighed Masthlion; ‘the severance will be thoroughly done. But it must be, and must be faced.’

‘What binds you to Surrentum? Come to Rome – there will be greater scope for your talents, and fortune will flow in upon you.’

‘Ah, yes, father!’ cried Neæra eagerly, with delight in her eyes; ‘and then we shall be nigh – everything persuades you – you cannot say anything against it – you know you cannot!’

She caressed him, once more, in her soft, loving manner, which never failed to fill the heart of her lover with secret pleasure, but Masthlion put her off as gently as before.

‘The aging tree is not removed as easily as the young sapling,’ he said. ‘No! this is not a fate which befalls thy mother and myself alone: it follows all those who live long enough to see their bantlings grow out of childhood – others have to bear it, so must we. Go whither your duty calls you; your lives have to be moulded, ours are not so lightly altered. And when your husband weds you, child, you become of his station – we know better than to follow you, to your disparagement.’

‘You do us little honour by that speech, Masthlion,’ said Martialis; ‘had I been of such a mean mind I would never have suggested what I have done.’

‘You are both young, and cannot see as far as we older people,’ replied Masthlion.

‘I am glad of it, then, if it were to see such ignoble conduct. What say you, Neæra?’

The girl’s head was hanging on her breast in painful thought. ‘Could I be ashamed of my own parents?’ she said.

The potter’s face clouded deep and he went away to the window, where he turned his back on the lovers, and looked into the garden in silent reflection.

Martialis stepped to Neæra’s side, and so they remained without a word for some time. A struggle was proceeding in Masthlion’s breast, and his lips were moving as he communed with himself. ‘Shall she be told?’ he thought; ‘would she lose me, or still cling to me? We have reared and tended her – new ways beget new ideas – it is idle to say we will be thus and thus until the time try us. To go, and find ourselves despised hereafter, perchance, would be a crueller thing than to remain here forgotten and forsaken. Must she be told? She knows nothing, or is ever like to know – how then can it matter to her if she be left in ignorance? But am I not selfish? Would it be just? I am afraid – it is fear; for the knowledge would sign her relief at once. Even if she still clung to me, how would he, a noble-born knight, take it? Yet, if she could disown me, after all our life of love and companionship, what is there honest or good in the world?’

A half-smothered groan broke from his lips in the tension of his feelings. He drowned it with a forced cough, and turned round. He looked upon the lovers standing in their fond attitude. They were a handsome pair, and the one not a whit unworthy of the other in any degree.

‘Well, Masthlion, have you decided?’ said Martialis. ‘Have you dismissed your suspicion from your mind? You have hurt me by it, believe me!’

‘Father!’ began Neæra, leaving her lover’s arms and going to him. The potter held up his hand before her and said, in a broken voice, scarcely more than a hoarse whisper —

‘No – not father!’

‘What!’ cried the astonished girl.

A strange feeling rose through the mind of the Pretorian. He checked it, and despised himself for it, but he could not help it; he would have been other than human to have done so. He looked inquiringly for more to follow from the lips of the potter, but the latter merely murmured —

‘Go, and leave me for a space!’ and then dropped his head, and covered his face with his hands.

The sight of his evident agitation was too much for Neæra. She cast a look of perplexity and concern at her lover, and then sprang to her father’s side. As she did so there was a loud knock at the door, which opened, simultaneously, to admit a brown broad-faced man with a short stiff beard and moustache, bearing a light wallet over one shoulder, and carrying a stout walking-stick in his hand.

CHAPTER VII

The blow, with which Domitius Afer sought to rid himself of his troublesome client, nigh the huge moonlit pile of the Circus Maximus, on the night of the attempted assassination of Fabricius, was not lacking in force, but was a trifle out of direction to prove fatal. Had the stricken man lain without attention, much longer than he did, it would have been sufficient to answer the end that Afer had in view. But it was fated that a house door hard by should open, not long after the knight had disappeared, to allow a man to pass out into the silent street. The luckless Cestus was, as described, lying in the shadow of the wall, whither his patron had dragged him. He was, therefore, directly across the very narrow sidewalk; and, the gloom of the shadow of the wall being intensified by reason of the bright moonlight adjacent, the individual we have mentioned did not perceive the body in his hurry, until he was made aware of its presence by falling over it. He straightway drew the Suburan into the light to make a more minute examination, not having succeeded in awakening any sign of consciousness. In passing his hand over the breast, his fingers met a damp, clammy matter which caused him to shiver. He held his hand in the light, and saw it was blood. The stricken man was still warm and breathing, as he thought; so he, at once, ran back to the house whence he had issued, and knocked loudly. The help of the inmates was readily obtained, and the sorely wounded man was borne inside, and laid on a bed, pending the arrival of a physician. That person came, and practised so well that Cestus recovered consciousness ere he left him.

‘Here is no matter of killing for theft,’ observed the leech to the household, gathered in concern to hear his dictum, ‘unless, indeed, as may be easily believed, that he was the thief. More likely a street scuffle with some night-hawks of his own feather. ’Tis a deep gash, but ill-aimed. He is a tough rogue, and will recover most likely. Had he been a good, honest citizen of worth to be deplored, he most likely would have died. But being what I take him to be, a rascal, he will come round no doubt. I am afraid, neighbour, you will never be requited for your benevolence.’

‘No matter,’ responded the master of the house, who was an elderly man, with sparse, gray hair, and a sad expression of face; ‘do your best to effect a cure, if possible; if he lives, it may perhaps prove a lesson.’

‘More likely to walk off with your valuables,’ said the physician, as he went out of the door.

‘Never could be such ingratitude,’ murmured the other; ‘even my wicked, wayward boy would scarce be so inhuman; and he has descended as low, perhaps, as this poor wretch.’

Cestus had every care paid to him, and for some days he remained in a critical state. Then he took a favourable turn for the better, and, aided by his robust constitution, very shortly became convalescent.

His ingenuity was very lightly taxed to explain his disaster to his benefactor. He had refused, he said, to join a society of his fellow-workmen, who, no doubt, had attempted to be rid of him as being a thorn in their sides. He, likewise, hinted that he would be in danger of his life if he remained in Rome, and that he would take the earliest opportunity to be quit of it. As he was accustomed to lounge away his time in idleness, the period of his confinement did not prove so irksome as it might otherwise have done. His benefactor learnt to come and converse at tolerable length, when he became aware of the patient’s plausible and fluent tongue. It was, therefore, impossible, that, speaking thus familiarly and often, Cestus should not obtain a certain insight into the family affairs of his host. Amongst other things, he discovered that he owned a scapegrace son, whose misdoings were the sorrow of his life. The great and varied knowledge which the Suburan possessed of the outlawry of the city, enabled him to pitch upon the erring youth as a denizen of the same notorious locality as himself. This much he did not think prudent to reveal, and so, at the same time, saved the grieving parent a far darker evidence of crime than that which he already lamented. Hardened as he was, the old man’s sorrow and sense of shame touched him. His narrow escape from death and his enfeebled state, no doubt, had softened the crust about his heart. Had he been a member of the family he could not have been tended with more care and kindness, and this tugged at his heartstrings likewise. He acknowledged his gratefulness, and, for the time at least, it is certain he felt it. But, in the silent and lonely hours of his reveries, his mind was constantly engaged in weaving a web around his treacherous patron. It was, literally, war to the knife.

‘He thinks I am dead,’ he muttered to himself, with a smile of satisfaction. ‘Good! his awakening will be all the more sudden and startling.’

When once safely delivered out of the jaws of death, the march of Cestus toward complete recovery was wonderfully rapid. Day by day he made a huge stride, and, day by day, his appetite grew more and more surprising. When at length the physician ceased from paying his visits, the patient hinted at his own speedy departure.

‘Had it been safe for me to have been removed to my own home I would not have troubled you so far,’ he said to his generous host; ‘but I am strong enough now to bear a journey, and I will betake myself from the city altogether.’

But his friend in need bade him beware of a relapse, and advised him not to mar a wonderful restoration of strength by premature exertion, for the sake of a few days’ earlier liberty. Cestus listened and took the advice, which protracted his sojourn for a week.

His plan of action had already been resolved on from the first, and he now made the few arrangements to carry it out. To gather strength and harden his frame by gentle exercise he made short excursions out of doors. The first time he did so his entertainer tried to dissuade him, on account of the danger he ran of being seen by his supposed enemies.

‘Why, master,’ returned Cestus, ‘there is less danger than you think; for, in the first place, it is the time of day when those fine fellows, who left me for dead, with a curse on them, are all at their daily labour. Then again, I would remind you, that my looks are altered for the time. I am as thin and shrunken in body as an eel-skin; my beard is two inches long; and I further purpose to alter myself with a certain juice of a berry which I can buy for a sesterce; so have no fear, my kind benefactor.’

Now, in safe keeping in the Subura, Cestus had an amount of money which remained of the last instalment he had demanded of his patron, as we have related previously. A tolerable portion had been already squandered, but the residue was enough to enable any Roman artisan, such as he represented himself to be, to live comfortably for a year without labouring. But, not knowing to what exigencies the execution of his plans might bring him, he resolved to incur no suspicion by its immediate use. He, therefore, applied to his host, to provide him with a small loan to cover the cost of a few clothes and the expenses of his journey.

‘Your honour,’ he said, ‘has been so good already that I shame to ask more from you. To take in a poor wretch – to snatch him from death’s door – to nurse him, feed him like a brother, and with small hope of return, is a thing that the gods will bless you for and prosper you.’

‘Say no more,’ replied the other; ‘here is what will help you.’

He placed in the Suburan’s hand a sum equal to about five pounds sterling.

‘Heaven reward your worship!’ said Cestus, kissing the robe of his generous friend. ‘If I have health and strength I will repay you this loan, as well as the cost you have been put to on my account; but, if I could discharge the debt of gratitude as easily as the money, I would be thankful indeed.’

‘Think no more of it,’ rejoined the other.

It is not too much to say that Cestus was really touched and grateful for his treatment. He even swore to himself that he would prove it practically, at some future time, if possible.

The first thing that he did, on getting out of doors, was to obtain a supply of a certain kind of berry, yielding a juice which he diluted to bring to a requisite tinge. This he applied to his skin, and it, at once, gave him the appearance of a man bronzed by exposure to the weather, whilst his thinned drawn features easily suggested, at the same time, the effects of fatigues and privations. Presenting himself suddenly before his host, he was gratified to learn that the change was so great as to mystify that worthy man for a moment.

This excursion proved to Cestus how very far his limbs were from their pristine state of sturdiness. His next expedition, with his embrowned face, was a ramble into the Subura. He took the most unfrequented streets, and, when he arrived at his destination, he avoided all chance of contact with acquaintances. Sending for the individual whom he had constituted his banker, he remained closeted with that worthy in a retreat secure from intrusion. This man was a tavern-keeper in the lowest part of the Subura. His business was large, and Cestus one of his prodigal customers. Not a coin of the money he amassed in the practice of his trade but had been obtained by its spenders in the vocations of crime and vice. Learned as Cestus was in the secret history of his native locality, his knowledge was superficial compared with this man’s. Without actually engaging in any unlawful pursuit himself he was the confidant of all others who did. He was receptive and silent as the grave. Without incriminating himself he aided his hideous customers, and they, in return, bestowed on him their patronage. His trustworthiness was his power, and Cestus had perfect confidence in applying to him for the little help he required. The publican was truly surprised to see his friend, for all clue to his whereabouts had been completely lost. Cestus speedily made him acquainted with the history of his disappearance, and wound up with a tremendous oath for revenge. The other tried to get at the relations of his friend with his patron, the knight, but the Suburan only smiled and put his finger along his nose.

‘Some day, brother,’ he said, ‘but not now.’

‘Well, well, as you please – I care little.’

‘All I want you to do now is to send and get to know, while I wait here, if my patron is in Rome and likely to be,’ proceeded Cestus. ‘I like to know where I have him, for I am going to take a holiday with a kinsman in Puteoli until I get strong again. The sea air will bring me round, and then I will return to pay attention to my worthy patron on the Esquiline.’

‘Do you intend to knife him straight off?’ inquired the publican.

‘Humph! you are not very flattering,’ returned Cestus; ‘but haste, and let me have what I want to know, and along with it all the cash I left with you. I shall want all I can scrape together.’

The publican departed, and, in an hour, was back with what Cestus wanted. The latter stowed away his treasure safely in the breast of his tunic, and learned that his patron was in the island of Capreae, in the train of the Prefect.

‘And when returns?’ he demanded.

‘That is more than any one can tell,’ answered his banker.

‘Capreae is where Caesar dwells?’

‘It is, brave Cestus – hast ever been there?’

‘No; but it can be seen at times, like a speck, from Puteoli. He can’t stay there for ever.’

‘Who – Caesar?’

‘No, you fool – Afer.’

‘Ah!’

‘Well, I can bide my time,’ said Cestus, rising to go. ‘No one was ever worth much that could not. He may rest where he will until I am strong – and then!’

The Suburan shook his fist, and, bidding farewell to his friend, took his slow way homeward.

With this daily increase of exercise his body began to gather something of its wonted firmness. His last excursion was down to the river bank, where he took passage in a regular trader to Puteoli. The vessel was to sail the following day, and Cestus took his farewell of his host with many expressions of gratitude.

The voyage to Puteoli is not long, and in that most important centre of commerce Cestus remained two days. He stayed at a public inn, and, on the evening of the second day, he left the town after dark, and took his way toward Neapolis.

‘Good!’ he muttered to himself, as he quitted the gates; ‘if any curious eyes have been watching me now they will be mystified. They may search Puteoli from end to end, and they will as soon find my kinspeople as myself;’ the said kinsfolk being, in fact, a mere fabrication as far as Puteoli was concerned.

He did not think it prudent to strain his budding strength by traversing the whole distance to Neapolis on that night, so he put up at the first tavern he met with, at a convenient distance from Puteoli. The next morning he was astir early and entered Neapolis. Here he loitered for a day, and then proceeded on a leisurely walking tour of the bay. He ambled along through the towns and past the villas which lined that matchless shore, drinking in the pure air, and enjoying the scenery as far as he was capable of doing. He had a well-filled purse, and he took his ease at his inn, where he fed and drank of the best. He did not overtask his strength, and every day increased it, for, indeed, he could not have hit upon a better plan for that end.

In this way he proceeded through Herculaneum, Pompeii, Stabiae, the most considerable towns on his route, till at length, on one afternoon, he sat to rest himself upon the worn basin of the self-same ancient fountain, of which we have already spoken, on the verge of the town of Surrentum.

‘Houf!’ he sighed, as he seated himself; ‘and here is the place at last! And now to find my potter!’ He sank into a reverie, and then lifted his head and looked around him. ‘The place looks the same as far as I can remember – it must be fourteen years since I was here. Fourteen years! How in the name of the furies do I know what has happened since then! Tibia, my sister, may be dead and dust by this time – her husband too, and – and the whole lot, and then what better shall I be? It is strange I never seemed to think seriously of this till now, at the very gates of the place – what if they are gone, flitted to no one knows where – Greece, Egypt, Africa, Gaul, – why, then I shall have only the small satisfaction of treating my patron to a taste of his own play – humph! No matter, I shall soon know.’