That Johannes Crescentius, the Senator of Rome might again come into his own, that he might again lord the rabble which now skulked through the streets to avenge some imaginary wrong on the head of the youth, whose love for them was to be the pass word for his destruction.
And Johannes Crescentius was her husband and lord. He loved her with as great a love as his nature was capable of, and whatever faults might be laid at the door of his regime, if faults they could even be termed in a lawless, feudal age, that knew no right save might,—to her he had never been untrue.
Stephania endeavoured to persuade herself that, what she had done, she had done for the good of Rome. Monstrous deception! She despised the mongrel rabble too heartily to even have raised a finger in its behalf. If they starved, would Crescentius give them bread? If they froze—would Crescentius clothe them? Then there remained but the question, should a Roman govern Rome, or the alien,—the foreigner. Was it for her to decide? How unworthy the cause of the sacrifice she was about to bring on the altar of her happiness. But which ever way the tongue of the scales inclined,—it was too late!
Otto had buried his head on Stephania's bosom. She had encircled it with her arms and with gentle fingers that sent a delirium through his brain, she stroked his soft brown hair, while the cry of Delilah hovered on her lips.
He looked up into her eyes.
"Stephania,—why are you here to-night?" he whispered again, and he felt the tremor which quivered through her body.
"I came to bring you the answer which you craved at our last meeting," she replied softly. "Can you guess it?"
"Then you have chosen," he gasped, as if he were suddenly confronted with the crisis in his existence, when that which he held dearest must either slip away from him for ever or remain his through all eternity.
"I have chosen!" she whispered, her arms tightening round him, as if she would protect him against all the world.
"Kiss me," she moaned.