Those letters were from you?—Oh, Sallust!
Sallust.
They contained nothing to injure you, my lord! What others may have written, I know not; I only know that I often enough groaned in anguish under my enforced and hated silence. I ventured as far as I by any means dared. That letter written to an unnamed man in your camp, which contained an account of the Emperor’s triumphal entry in Rome, and which you found one morning on the march to Lutetia pushed under your tent-flap——; you did find it, my lord?
Julian.
Yes, yes——?
Sallust.
That was directed to me, and chance favoured me in bringing it into your hands. I dared not speak. I longed to, but I could not; I put off from day to day the confession of my shame. Oh, punish me, my lord; see, here I lie!
Julian.
Stand up; you are dearer to me thus,—conquered without my will and against your own. Stand up, friend of my soul; no one shall touch a hair of your head.
Sallust.