The tutor walked to the end of the long deck. The sailors’ song was hushed, the hymn was hushed; only the rowers’ melancholy phrase sounded very softly, muffled in undertone.
The old man stopped. On a pile of cushions lay Catullus, Lucius’ penniless uncle, pot-bellied as Silenus and with a bald and shining pate; and on a low chair sat Cora, the Greek slave from Cos. Her harp stood like a rounded bow by her side; and she leant her head against it.
“Well, Thrasyllus,” mumbled Catullus, sleepily, “how goes it with my nephew?”
“He has spoken a kind word to me,” replied the tutor, joyfully.
“A kind word?” cried Catullus, raising himself, with his hands still behind the grey fringe of his cranium. “I shall become jealous! I have not had a kind word since that wench bolted....”
“Ssh! Be silent, worthy Catullus,” said Thrasyllus. “He believes that she has been kidnapped. Leave him in that belief.”
“And every one knows—the steersman told me so himself—that she ran away with Carus the Cypriote, the sailor! Every one knows it, all the sailors and rowers....”
“Ssh!” Thrasyllus repeated. “Never tell him! He worshipped the woman and she was not worth it! She reigned as queen in his house ... and she ran away with Carus the Cypriote! She left a master like Lucius for a scoundrel like Carus!”
“And Lucius still believes that Venus watches over him!”
“Why should the goddess not watch over him, my Lord Catullus? Ilia was not worthy of Lucius: the goddess was in very truth watching over Lucius when she aroused that mad passion in Ilia. Who knows what great and high happiness she has in store for him in the future?”