Quintus, under the stormy fervor of this declaration, felt an uneasy mistrust which he tried in vain to repress. This despotic “mine—mine” gave him a sensation as of the grip of a siren. He involuntarily rose.
“My good fortune takes my breath away!” he said in flattering accents; doubly flattering to atone for the hasty impulse by which he had stood up. “But now grant my bold desire, and let me see your face. Let me know who it is, that vouchsafes me such unparalleled favors.”
“You cannot guess?” she whispered reproachfully. “And yet it is said, that the eyes of love are keen. Quintus, my beloved, Fate denies us all open and unchecked happiness; it is in secret only that your lips may ever meet mine. But you know that true love mocks at obstacles—nay more, the flowers that blossom in the very valley of death are those that smell sweetest.”
Quintus drew back a step.
“Once more,” he insisted, “tell me who you are?”
The tall figure raised a beautiful arm, that shone like Parian marble in the moonlight, and slowly lifted her veil.
“The Empress!"[94] cried Quintus dismayed.
“Not ‘the Empress’ to you, my Quintus—to you Domitia, hapless, devoted Domitia, who could die of love at your feet.”
Quintus stood immovable.
“Fear nothing,” she said smiling. “No listener is near to desecrate the perfect bliss of this moonlit night.”