Oppressed by sad yearning and anxiety, the usually light-hearted child had again walked this evening from her tent to the lake gate, and thence, driven back by the shouts of the Thracian sentries, wandered through the whole camp to her beloved pine-tree, which had begun to supply the place of the oak beside her forest home: for the tree of the earth-goddess also afforded a convenient ascent like a stairway on its broad branches drooping to the sacrificial stones, while on the central trunk was a hiding-place invisible from below, with a comfortable back, and the beloved view over the Roman fortifications to the mountain peaks rising in the distance.

The sun had set long before, and darkness gathered quickly in that region as soon as the glowing ball had vanished behind the wooded western shores of the lake. There was no moon; only a few stars were in the sky.

The wind bore to her ears from the distance scattered sounds: the neighing of a horse, the rattle of a weapon, the shout of a sentinel at the gate. Oh, those guards, who also watched her here in her spacious prison, prevented her escape, her return to her people--for how much longer? Sorrow overpowered her, and she felt that tears were about to flow. But her tyrants should not see them; she would weep her fill, up above there!

Bissula glided lightly up and sat so still in her hiding-place among the boughs that a belated bird--a blackbird--perched for the night, without seeing her, a few branches above her head.

Then the girl saw two men step cautiously from behind corner tents, each at the end of a street running in opposite directions across the camp; they made signs to each other, gazed carefully behind and sideways, then hurried forward and met directly under the pine-tree on its northern side, so that the huge trunk completely concealed them from the camp.

Bissula bent softly, softly downward: it was a man with a helmet and one unarmed; she could not distinguish their features. They began to talk, in whispers, it is true, but the listener understood many words, and she now recognized the speakers by their voices.

"But I tell you, it must be this very day! He has ordered the scribe to come early tomorrow morning, with the seal. He means to change his will--to add a codicil. What good will his death do me, if he first throws the best part of his riches into that wench's lap?"

The other made some reply which the girl did not hear.

"Ha!--she--she can't be reached!" answered the first speaker. "That red-haired witch is under the protection of the fiends of hell."

"How so?"

"Why, one night lately--a deadly terror has seized me ever since when I see the brown beast--the monster's hot, loathsome breath was steaming from her open jaws into my face! She was within a hair's breadth of clutching and squeezing me to death! This very evening--just now--at supper--"

"Hark, what was that," asked the other startled, "up above in the pine-tree? Didn't you hear anything?"

"Pshaw! The night-breeze in the branches!"

"No, no! It was--"

"Well, it was that bird! There it flies!"

The startled blackbird, loudly uttering its cry of fear and warning, flew upward; the listener, in her horror, had pressed her hand upon her throbbing heart and, by the slight movement, frightened the bird perched so near her.

"Well then, by Tartarus, I will risk it! He complained again to-day, before many witnesses, of fever and all sorts of pains. Have you hemlock enough? Shall I give you my vial? I brought it with me. Here, I always carry it in my breast."

"Enough for six uncles!"

"But the stuff must have a suspicious taste: sharp, bitter. Suppose he should notice it too soon?"

"That's why I mixed the other half with honey. But take good care of your store. Perhaps Prosper, in case he has any suspicion, must also--"

"Or the Barbarian girl, if the will has already--"

"Let us go," the other interrupted.

"Put it in the Emperor's goblet! He drinks from no other.--Quick: I go to the left."

"And I go to the right."

The voices died away, and the footsteps echoed from two directions.

Horrified, almost paralyzed with terror, Bissula slipped down from the tree. On reaching the ground she staggered, clinging to the trunk for support, and for a moment wondered whether she had not fallen asleep and dreamed. She could not realize, could not believe that such a deed was possible. His own nephew--that kind-hearted man!

And yet it was true. Haste was necessary. The hour for the meal had already come, and Ausonius always began by drinking from the Emperor's goblet, with the three beautiful female figures, to the health of the Emperor Gratianus.

Those two men had the start, too, and it was a considerable distance from this extreme northwestern corner of the camp to the PrÆtorium in the south. Turning, she ran as swiftly as she could, but had only reached the corner of the nearest street of tents when she shrieked aloud in terror. An iron hand grasped her arm.

"Help!" she screamed despairingly. "Help! Help for Ausonius!"

"Why are you shrieking like a dying leveret, little one?" replied a deep voice. "Where are you going so fast?"

"Let me go, whoever you may be! The Prefect's life is in danger! Who are you?"

"I am Rignomer. I followed you unnoticed till you climbed the tree. You wouldn't have seen me now, if you hadn't dashed away as though you were driven by the elves. Where are you going?"

"To the Prefect! They want to murder him!"

"Oh, nonsense, what are you talking about? Who?"

"Don't ask! Come with me! Hurry! Alas, perhaps even now it is too late."

The Batavian yielded to this unmistakable despair. Without removing his hand from her arm, he ran beside her.

"Where is the Tribune?" asked Bissula.

"With the Prefect: some news has come from Arbor."

"The gods be thanked. He is the only one who can help!"

On they ran through the streets of the camp, now perfectly dark except where fires were glimmering at the corners. Suddenly Bissula fell. The German dragged her up.

"A tent rope! You must keep more in the middle. But you are limping! Did you hurt yourself?"

"A little. Keep on."

But she reeled; her feet refused to carry her.

"Now it's lucky that I caught you," said the soldier, swinging her on his arm like a child. And Bissula, who usually so fiercely resisted every touch, willingly permitted it.

"Throw your arms around my neck, little one! There. Now hold fast! It won't be long" ("unfortunately" he thought, but took good care not to say it), "we shall reach there directly." And he pressed on swiftly and sturdily with his light, beautiful burden.