Crescentius' tone grew gloomy as he continued.
"I bear the youth no grudge, nor ill-will.—But Rome cannot share. He has a power of which he is himself unconscious; it is the inheritance from his Hellenic mother. Were he conscious of its use, hardly the grave would be a safe refuge for us. Once Rome triumphed over Hellas. Shall Hellas trample Rome in the dust in the person of this boy, whose unspoken word will sweep our old traditions from the soil?"
"But this power, this weakness as you call it—what is it?" Stephania interposed, raising her head questioningly. "I know you have not scrutinized the armour, which encases that fantastic soul, without an effort to discover a flaw."
"And I have discovered it," Crescentius replied, his heart beating strangely. Stephania herself was leading up to the fatal subject of his visit; but in the depths of his soul he trembled for fear of himself, and wished he had not come.
"And what have you discovered?" Stephania persisted curiously.
"The weak spot in the armour," he replied, avoiding her gaze.
"Is there a remedy?"
"We lack but the skilful physician."
Stephania raised herself from her recumbent position. With pale and colourless face she stared at the speaker.
"Surely—you would not resort to—"