‘It is truly high-minded and generous of thee, Martialis,’ she said.
‘Take it—I need it not!’ he answered eagerly.
‘Foolish!’ she rejoined, drawing her hand away and accompanying her words with a mocking smile. ‘Bid Festus teach thee to be wiser than rob thyself.’
‘It is a question for his own heart to decide,’ remarked the lawyer, replacing the papers in the box.
‘Festus has done his part and I will keep him no longer—say no more!’ said Martialis.
The lawyer rose at this hint, and at the same moment a voice came from the doorway. Looking thither they beheld a tall cloaked figure standing in the doorway, regarding them and their surroundings with keen eyes.
Martialis started. ‘Lucius!’ he exclaimed.
‘Even so, brother,’ returned the new-comer.
It was indeed the Centurion, bearing the stains of hard travel on his garments and a jaded air on his face.
Plautia rose to her feet. Her cheeks were suffused with a sudden flood of crimson, and her bosom stirred her tunic with deeper and more rapid pulsations. A delicious tremor seemed to melt her natural stateliness of carriage. Her eyes, so full of haughtiness and will, encountering the calm gaze of the Pretorian, sank like a timid child’s, shaded beneath a deep sweeping fringe of eyelashes.