“One thing—above all things one thing!” cried the girl. “That architecture is the sublimest of the arts! This temple is to me like some grand epode, and the poet who composed it conceived it not in feeble words but formed it out of almost immovable masses. Thousands of parts are here combined to form a whole, and each is welded with the rest into beautiful harmony and helps to give expression to the stupendous idea which existed in the brain of the builder of this hall. What other art is gifted with the power of creating a work so imperishable and so far transcending all ordinary standards?”
“A poetess crowning the architect with laurels!” exclaimed the Emperor. “But is not the poet’s realm the infinite, and can the architect ever get beyond the finite and the limited?”
“Then is the nature of the divinity a measurable unit?” asked Balbilla. “No, it is not; and yet this hall gives one the impression that the very divinity might find space in it to dwell in.”
“Because it owes it existence to a master-mind, which while it conceived it stood on the boundary line of eternity. But do you think this temple will outlast the poems of Homer?”
“No; but the memory of it will no more fade away that of the wrath of Achilles or the wanderings of the experienced Odysseus.”
“It is a pity that our friend Pontius cannot hear you,” said Hadrian. “He has completed the plans for a work which is destined to outlive me and him and all of us.
“I mean my own tomb. Besides that I intend him to erect gates, courts and halls in the Egyptian style at Tibur, which may remind us of our travels in this wonderful country. I expect him to-morrow.”
“To-morrow!” exclaimed Balbilla, and her face fired with a scarlet flush to her very brow.