He spent a day and night at the villa, looked cheerfully upon them, and went back to Rome where he had work to do. He came no more, and their hearts told them that he had been taken in the net.
A slave, the woman who had nursed her, brought the dire news of Flavia, Flavia in the House of the Vestals! The two were in the garden, seated upon a marble bench, gazing idly at the fish in the sunken marble basin.
Came the slave and threw herself at Valeria’s feet, clasping her knees. “Mistress! Mistress!”
“Ina! Ina! What is it?”
“I went to the foot of the vineyard. One I knew passed from the city. It is talking—it is talking—”
“Of what, Ina? Of what?”
“Oh, Flavia, mistress!—Flavia! Flavia!”
“Flavia!”
“Rome talks. It says that she, a vestal, has been unchaste! The proof has been gathered, even to-day she is judged and condemned!” Ina’s voice rose to a shriek. “It says that the earth will be opened and Flavia be buried living!”
Valerian beat his head against the marble, but Valeria sat like the marble’s self. When at last she spoke, moved her limbs, rose and went about through the place and the time and the small, slow events of existence, it was like a being drugged. In her eyes might be seen one bound down.... There was no help—what help was there in all Rome and the world?