“Say no more about such a trifle, I beg of you,” said Quintus. “Though indeed,” he added smiling, “it is not impossible, that I may claim your kind offices sooner than you expect, though not as a return for my performances as a horse-tamer.”
“I am happy to hear it. Come when you will, I am entirely at your disposal.”
“Very well then,” said Quintus with emphasis; “expect me this evening by the end of the second vigil.”
“Unfortunately I am engaged at that hour.”
“Later then, an hour before midnight?”
“That will do; I will expect you,” said Aurelius.
The two girls had stood quite still during this short dialogue. Claudia was still struggling with the remains of her agitation, even Lucilia had turned pale. Aurelius now stammered out a confused apology, bid them farewell, and set spurs to his horse, while the freedman dragged with all his might at the wolf’s-tooth bit[321] of his hard-mouthed jade. They vanished in the crowd, Aurelius as straight and free as a young centaur, and his companion like a clumsy bale of goods incessantly tossed and jolted.
“You are a fine fellow!” cried Claudia, clasping her brother’s hand with eager emotion. “What strength, what courage, what promptitude! Oh! my heart nearly stood still with terror, when the rearing brute’s hoofs hung just above your head—I shall never forget it!”
“I am sure I am very much obliged to you, my dear little sister. It is a long time, since I last heard you speak to me in such an enthusiastic key. Confess, Claudia—the fact that the rider’s name happened to be Caius Aurelius, does not diminish your ardent appreciation of the feat?”
“You may laugh at me, if you will. I respect and admire you, and forgive all your former sins.”