The clank of armor came from the open door: a centurion belonging to Herculanus's troop approached, bowing respectfully. "Everything is empty, vir illuster, the Tribune sends word. And we are to ask you--we are burning all the Barbarians' houses--whether this too--"
"Let it remain uninjured."
The man nodded with a look of pleasure. "I am glad to obey the order. It would have been a hard task to destroy this home. Umbrian roses, Picentinian mallows, like those which grow around my parents' house in Spoletium, in the midst of the Barbarians' marshes! Who can have wrought this miracle?"
"A poet," replied Ausonius, smiling, "and the fourth, the youngest, of the Graces. So Saturninus was here himself?"
"Yes, but even before him your nephew, with me. Herculanus searched everywhere carefully, nay, greedily. He forbade my accompanying him. I was obliged to wait at the entrance."
"The good fellow! He wanted to bring her to me himself, to surprise me--"
"Directly after Herculanus left, Saturninus dashed up."
"Where did the troop go from here?"
"Yonder into the forest, keeping to the left, steadily to the left, away from the lake. Otherwise horses and men would sink in the morass. You will find sentinels posted in the woods every three hundred paces. I, with three men, form the commencement of the chain here."
"See that the yard and garden are not injured. I'll promise in return a jug of the best wine."