The suddenness of the question sent the blood up into the cheeks of the Gaulish maiden, and Julia felt at once that the hints of Sempronius were fully justified.
“Yes,” Clotilde answered quietly, “I met him when, with Hannibal, he came down from the Alps into our country.”
“Why did you not say so before?” Julia asked passionately. “Mother, the slaves have been deceiving us.”
“Julia,” Flavia said in surprise, “why this heat? What matters it to us whether they have met before?”
Julia did not pay any attention, but stood with angry eyes waiting for Clotilde's answer.
“I did not know, Lady Julia,” the girl said quietly, “that the affairs of your slaves were of any interest to you. We recognized each other when we first met. Long ago now, when we were both in a different position—”
“And when you loved each other?” Julia said in a tone of concentrated passion.
“And when we loved each other,” Clotilde repeated, her head thrown back now, and her bearing as proud and haughty as that of Julia.
“You hear that, mother? you hear this comedy that these slaves have been playing under your nose? Send them both to the whipping post.”
“My dear Julia,” Flavia exclaimed, more and more surprised at her anger, “what harm has been done? You astonish me. Clotilde, you can retire. What means all this, Julia?” she went on more severely when they were alone; “why all this strange passion because two slaves, who by some chance have met each other before, are lovers? What is this Gaulish girl, what is this Carthaginian slave, to you?”