"Marcia—" began Lucius; but she raised her hand warningly and went on:—
"Do you want me to tell you why my father will not let you marry me now? There are two reasons. One because I don't want him to, and another because he thinks you must do something great to wipe out the stain of a Roman centurion's even being carried away before the Gauls."
"That will be an easy task, judging by the news we receive each day. I wish I felt as certain of the safety of the Republic as I am that my honour shall be satisfactorily vindicated."
He spoke bitterly, but she went on without taking note of his meaning.
"These are auspicious words, my Lucius. You will regain your honour; father will once more receive you into his favour, and, by that time, I shall doubtless be old enough to marry,—perhaps too old,—but, no, I must not wait so long as that. Perhaps I shall have married some one else by the time you are worthy of my favour."
"More probably I shall have ceased to care for the favour of living men and women."
"Truly? And you think you will have to die? Perhaps you will be a Decius Mus, and stand on the javelin and wear the Cincture Gabinus; and then I shall mourn for you and hang so many garlands on your tomb that all the shades of your friends will be mad with jealousy—"
"Marcia, is it possible for you to be serious?"
He was pale with suppressed passion, and, as he spoke, he stepped forward and laid his hand upon her wrist.
She sprang back and half raised a light staff she carried, while her face flushed crimson.