“A pretty message from a prisoner to his judge,” replied the chamberlain with a curious smile. “But have no fear, noble Marcus, it shall not be delivered. I am not paid to tell my royal master the truth. Think again.”
“I have thought,” answered Marcus. “I do not know where the maiden is and therefore cannot deliver her to Domitian, nor would I if I could. Rather will I be disgraced and perish.”
“I suppose,” mused Saturius, “that this is what they call true love, and to speak plainly,” he added with a burst of candour, “I find it admirable and worthy of a noble Roman. My lord Marcus, my mission has failed, yet I pray that the Fates may order your deliverance from your enemies, and, in reward for these persecutions, bring back to you unharmed that maiden whom you desire, but whom I go to seek. Farewell.”
Two days later Stephanus, the steward of Marcus who waited upon him in his prison, announced that a man who said his name was Septimus wished speech with him, but would say nothing of his business.
“Admit him,” said Marcus, “for I grow weary of my own company,” and letting his head fall upon his hand he stared through the bars of his prison window.
Presently he heard a sound behind him, and looked round to see an old man clad in the robe of a master-workman, whose pure and noble face seemed in a strange contrast to his rough garments and toil-scarred hands.
“Be seated and tell me your business,” said Marcus courteously, and with a bow his visitor obeyed.
“My business, my lord Marcus,” he said in an educated and refined voice, “is to minister to those who are in trouble.”
“Then, sir, your feet have led you aright,” answered Marcus with a sad laugh, “for this is the house of trouble and you see I am its inhabitant.”
“I know, and I know the cause.”