‘It is a matter which demands further talk, and, as there is no reason why it should take place in the sight of neighbours and passers-by, perhaps you will enter my poor house, Centurion.’
‘Willingly—I desire nothing better,’ was the reply.
Masthlion, heaving a deep sigh, took his daughter by the hand and led the way along the inner passage. Martialis followed them into a small room, furnished simply with a table, some stools, and a couch; whilst, for ornament, some brackets and shelves bore a few exquisitely-finished specimens of glasswork, together with some small figures sculptured in stone, the fruits of the potter’s self-taught genius. From the door Masthlion called aloud for his wife, and she hastily appeared. She was a spare woman, with patient eyes. Her face had been comely, but was worn and faded with the hardship and anxiety of a long struggle against hunger and want in their early wedded life.
A significant glance passed between her and her husband as she perceived what had occasioned the demand for her presence.
She made a silent obeisance to the visitor, and waited for her husband to speak.
As for Neæra, she stood with her head still bowed on her breast.
Her lover’s tall, erect form, draped in its ample flowing cloak, seemed to fill the little room. His eyes rested with calm confidence on Masthlion, who began in grave measured tones:—
‘Wife, the Centurion Martialis hath told me that he loves our daughter.’ Here he paused a few moments, looking on the floor. ‘What we should tell him is this, that she is our only child, the one light of our house. But had we twenty, we must be assured, as far as possible, of good and honourable keeping ere we let one go from our roof. You understand this, Centurion?’
‘Perfectly; it is only natural and proper. Do what you think best for your assurance.’
‘First, then! is it from mere fancy that you would try to take my daughter away, and then to cast her off when that fancy has burnt itself out, after the fashion of many of your order?’