"And why?"
Slowly and with assumed severity she spoke.
"Because—I—do—not—love—you."
"Cruel one!" said he, turning and biting his lips. "Your words are as the blow of the pilum."
"Have they indeed wounded you?" She touched his hand with a look of sympathy.
"They have made me sick at heart."
"Then would I not believe them," said she, tenderly, slipping her slender fingers into his.
He pressed her hand. "And do you, then, love me?"
"No—I—do—not—love—you."
"You are a strange people—you maidens of the capital," said he, taking her hand in both of his. "Rome has conquered everything save its women."
She parted her tunic and stood looking down at her white bosom, and with her delicate fingers brushed off a bit of dust which had fallen from the vine above them.