"This piece," said Saturninus, drawing it from his girdle and laying it on the fresh patch; "you see it fits exactly."
"The Furies' curse on you all!" screamed Herculanus.
"Away with them both!" the Tribune commanded. "Prosper, two of your slave-blocks! It won't do to leave them guarded in an open tent. That is always unsafe and requires the constant presence of trustworthy men, whom we cannot spare. Rignomer, you will lock them in--both feet--apart from each other. Your life will answer for it if they escape on the way."
"They shall not," growled the Batavian, who had been inexpressibly enraged by the fling at his love for Bissula, though he did not know why. "Forward!"
Led by Rignomer, the four guards and Prosper thrust the prisoners out of the tent.
CHAPTER XLIV.
The curtains had scarcely dropped behind them when Ausonius exclaimed: "He must not die! My Melania's son! He must fly into exile!"
"The Emperor will decide. But you, friend Ausonius, praise Heaven, which sent you this child. You owe your life solely to her."
The Prefect drew the young girl to the couch by his side and kissed her hands and brow. She submitted, for she was weeping. He would fain have kissed her lips too, but he forebore. The usually defiant creature was so childlike, so helpless from sheer emotion over his escape. So he only stroked her beautiful head with his hand and said, deeply moved himself: "The Christians have a superstition which I have often derided, of a guardian angel which God gives to mortals. I shall never do so again. You, Bissula, are my guardian angel!"
"But angels ought not to be slaves," remarked the Illyrian with a smile which well became his manly face. "I give you this child, Ausonius; she is your slave now. Do with her as you choose."