Time had dealt very gently with the scholar and philosopher. Casca’s high brow, from which the hair had retreated, was smooth and but gently marked by lines. His hands, which had wielded the pen to so much purpose, were white and slender, and his robe fell around him in graceful folds.
As he and Claudius stood, with their right hands clasped together and their left resting on each other’s shoulders, they made a fine contrasted picture of the scholar and the soldier.
Claudius was tall and stalwart, his skin bronzed with exposure to the sun, several scars of sabre cuts on his brow and cheek, and many deep wrinkles on his brow, still shadowed by thick masses of tawny hair which, like his beard, were lined with silver.
“Yes,” Claudius said, “we meet after many years.”
“Do you come from Rome?” Casca asked, “or from Verulam?”
“From Rome,” and Claudius sighed. “From Rome, and I bear you tidings of your sister, now the Vestal Maxima.”
“Hyacintha!” exclaimed Casca, “she is always dear to my heart, but her life is on the mountain top, and we poor folk are on a lower level.”
“The mountain top is but a barren waste to her, I fear. She has much trouble, and her elevation is dearly bought.”
“Sit down and tell me all,” Casca said. “Ah! good Claudius, it is like a draught of new wine to see you. Strange that when you entered I was going over the past—the little chamber at Verulam, Hyacintha sitting by my side, and your loud ringing voice bidding me meet life as a man, and not as a coward. Brave advice, whether for the scholar or soldier, eh, good Claudius?”