“It has been revealed.”
Again Domitia threw her arms about the sick woman, she pressed her wet cheek to her tear-moistened face, and said:—
“Come with me, and tell me all thou knowest—and about the Fish. Come with me, and give me a little happiness, that I may think of thee, comfort thee, read to thee, talk with thee—I care for no other woman. And Euphrosyne, thy sister, she is with me, and I will keep thee as the apple of mine eye.”
“Oh, lady! this is too great!”
“What? anon thou wouldst deny me naught, and now refusest me this.”
“In God’s name so be it,” said Glyceria. “But when?”
“Now. I will have no delay, see—” she went to the door and spoke with her slaves. “They shall bear thee in my litter, at once. Euphrosyne shall tarry here and collect thy little trifles, and the good Eboracus, he shall bear them to thy new home. O Glyceria! For once I see a sunbeam.”
Never could the dwellers in the Insula have dreamt of beholding that which this day they saw. The actor’s crippled widow lifted by imperial slaves and placed in the litter of the Empress, the Augusta, to whom divine honors had been accorded. And, further, they saw the cripple borne away, down the lane of the Suburra in which was their block of lodgings, and the Empress walked by the side, holding the hand of the patient who lay within.
They did not shout, they uttered no sound indicative of approval, no applause. They held their breaths, they laid their hands on their mouths, they looked each other in the eyes—and wondered what this marvel might portend. A waft of a new life had entered into the evil world, whence it came, they knew not, what it would effect, that also they could not conceive—whom it would touch, how transform, all was hid from their eyes.