The potter did not reply straightway, but, smoothing the trembling girl’s head ceaselessly with his hand, he stood with his brow contracted in painful thought, and his eyes bent on the ground.
‘In good faith, Centurion,’ he said, after an uneasy silence, ‘you rend my heart between doubt and anxiety, and a desire [pg 15]to act generously as well as prudently. Can I deliver up my child to a stranger? Were you of this district I could judge better of you. You are honest and fair-spoken, and your looks correspond to your speech. But yet you are no more than a stranger, and Surrentum knows you not.’
‘I would fetch Rome, if I could, to aid you,’ said the young man. ‘You are pleased to be satisfied with my appearance; I, for my part, will await your further inquiries with confidence.’
‘I have no suspicion of your character, noble sir, but prudence requires proof. I cannot give you a decided answer, for now we are at odds and evens. You are sanguine and confident of the future; I am not. Hawks should pair only with hawks, and sparrows with sparrows. More words at present, however, would be spent to no purpose—the matter requires time and reflection.’
‘The child Neæra is not goods or chattels, husband—is she to have no word for herself?’ remarked his wife quietly.
‘Ay, truly, Tibia; thou hast ever a word in season,’ answered the potter to his delighted spouse. ‘The gods forgive me for a thoughtless blockhead. It would be a fine way of making a pot without first proving if the clay be fit. What say you, Neæra—do you love this young man?’
The girl clung closer, and buried her face deeper in his shoulder, but her silence was eloquent.
The soldier’s bronzed face gathered a deeper tinge, and his ears were strained to catch the accents which he expected to follow, but which came not.
‘Come, my child,’ continued Masthlion earnestly; ‘I want thee to say truly what thy heart prompts thee to say. If thou lovest him speak it then; there is no crime or harm in it that I can see. You have heard what has passed, and I can call your confession, if it is what I expect it to be, only by as hard a name as a misfortune. Speak!’
A simple ‘Yes’ was the reply, in a voice so low and yet so clear that it caused her lover’s blood to bound in his veins with exquisite joy. He stepped forward as if to take her, but the hand of Masthlion restrained his eager advance.