‘I know not whether she lives or is dead,’ muttered the old man; ‘to me she is dead—fourteen years ago she vanished on one accursed day, and no tidings of her have ever reached us since.’
‘Alas, that was too cruel!’ murmured the other.
‘Crueller perhaps than all, for I am harassed by the thought that if she lives she may be groaning under cruel slavery or bondage, which is worse than death. Time has dulled somewhat the smart of this grievous thrust, but tongue cannot speak the anguish I have known in my heart. As for the wretch who dealt me this last fell, heartless stroke, let the gods deal with him and his. Treasure and time I have lavished in vain search; and, doubtless, I have been robbed through it all. Cunning people, knowing the old man’s ever-green hopes, have worked upon his credulity. The other night on the Aventine was an instance which would have probably cost me my life but for your timely appearance. One of those very villains, whom you scattered, came to me in this very room, with a request from a supposed dying man, purporting to be the fiend who had stolen away my little Aurelia. It was nothing but a cunning tale to lead me into a trap—silly fools, they might have taken my life, but little besides!’
‘Had not my foot tripped, one of those same rascals would now have been safe under lock and key awaiting his deserts,’ observed Martialis.
‘I warrant it if your fingers had once closed upon him,’ replied Fabricius, with an approving smile; ‘but it matters not much. It is only another and more flagrant case of my infatuation, as my nephew calls it. I shall fall under the lash of his tongue bravely for it. But what, Centurion, if I give up hope, what need is there of living?’
‘None.’
‘And you, a young man, live vigorously, having copious hope. Ah, I see!’ continued Fabricius, smiling, as he noted [pg 120]the ready colour tinging the sunburnt cheek of the Pretorian, ‘as well as if your shaven cheek had been the delicate red and white of a young girl. First and foremost, at your age, is the hope which is rooted in love—well, I shall know more when our friendship enlarges.’
‘How old was your granddaughter when you lost her?’ inquired Martialis hastily, coming back to the former subject of conversation.
‘How old! About three years,’ answered Fabricius, the smile fading from his face.
‘You would hardly recognise her, then, if fate brought you face to face with her?’