“Nay, not I.”
“Yet, stay—a word with you: just suggest to all whom you may meet the advisability of a full meeting; it looks well for the city to show respect to letters.”
“To say nothing of the Jubilee,” added Adrian, smiling.
“Ah, to say nothing of the Jubilee—very good! Adieu for the present!” And the Bishop, resettling himself on his saddle, ambled solemnly on to visit his various friends, and press them to the meeting.
Meanwhile, Adrian continued his course till he had passed the Capitol, the Arch of Severus, the crumbling columns of the fane of Jupiter, and found himself amidst the long grass, the whispering reeds, and the neglected vines, that wave over the now-vanished pomp of the Golden House of Nero. Seating himself on a fallen pillar—by that spot where the traveller descends to the (so called) Baths of Livia—he looked impatiently to the sun, as to blame it for the slowness of its march.
Not long, however, had he to wait before a light step was heard crushing the fragrant grass; and presently through the arching vines gleamed a face that might well have seemed the nymph, the goddess of the scene.
“My beautiful! my Irene!—how shall I thank thee!”
It was long before the delighted lover suffered himself to observe upon Irene’s face a sadness that did not usually cloud it in his presence. Her voice, too, trembled; her words seemed constrained and cold.
“Have I offended thee?” he asked; “or what less misfortune hath occurred?”
Irene raised her eyes to her lover’s, and said, looking at him earnestly, “Tell me, my Lord, in sober and simple truth, tell me, would it grieve thee much were this to be our last meeting?”