He took a handful of her curls and let them fall upon her shoulders.
Then he crowned her with a sprig of vervain from a vase near by.
"I will not weep—I will not weep," she repeated, her voice trembling as he touched her hair.
He moved backward slowly, as one might leave a queen. Her eyes followed him, and suddenly she rose and flew to his arms again.
"I will not weep—I will not weep," said she, brokenly. Again he held her to his breast.
"Though you get fame and glory, forget not love," she whispered.
"Dear one," he exclaimed, kissing her, "this hour shall be in every day of my life."
"But with adventures and battles and the praise of kings it is so easy to forget."
"But with one so noble and so beautiful at home it will be easy to remember. Let us be brave. I am only a woman myself to-day. Help me to be a man."
He led her again to the cushions, and she sat as before—a picture, now, beyond all art, sublime indeed with love and sorrow and trustfulness and repression. It was that look of abnegation upon her that he remembered.
"I shall not rise nor speak again, dear son of Varro," said she. "You shall know that my love for you has made me strong. See, dear love. Look at my face and see how brave I am." Her voice, now calm, had in it some power that touched him deeply. It was the great, new love between men and women—-forerunner of the mighty revolution.