The morning after Ausonius had made this last entry in his diary, Bissula, as usual, shared the first meal in his tent with the uncle and nephew. The Prefect of Gaul was in excellent spirits, often jested, talked a great deal, had his goblet repeatedly filled by the slave who was his cup-bearer, and remarked again that the campaign would soon be over. "When the ships come," he added in conclusion, "the Barbarians will sue for peace." Glancing up merrily his eyes chanced to rest on the young girl's face. To his surprise a mocking, nay, angry smile was hovering around lips pouting in defiance; her brow was frowning, and she made no reply. The conversation flagged. Herculanus watched the rising cloud sharply, and eagerly fanned the flame.

"What?" he cried. "Peace? Bondage; extirpation! The CÆsar will soon drag the last remaining Alemanni before his triumphal chariot to the Capitol: the leaders will be strangled, the rest sold cheap: a German for a cabbage."

Tears of rage filled Bissula's eyes. She could find no words; fury choked her voice. She searched her thoughts, her memory, for aid and defence. Adalo was the only name which came to her. "Yes, Adalo, if you were here, or if I had your swift speech, whispered by Odin! Stay--his verse--his verse of defiance. How, did it run?" She closed her eyes to think, resting her elbows on the table, with both little clenched hands pressed against her throbbing brow.

"I will offer a toast," Herculanus went on, raising his goblet; "pledge me. You, the pupil of Ausonius, are surely one of us: Disgrace and death to the Alemanni!" Bissula sprang up. Her blue eyes were blazing; her red tresses fluttered around her head; a blow from her clenched fist sent the silver goblet rattling on the floor; and, in the language of her people, she cried loudly:

"Oh, I thank you, I thank you, Adalo!" And she rushed out of the tent.

"How foolish!" Ausonius said reproachfully to his nephew. "How inhospitable! How could you so incense our guest?"

"Guest? Our, that is, the Illyrian's, slave-girl. But forgive me, uncle. It shall not happen again. How little a Barbarian woman suits the society of Romans! Our thoughts, our wishes--she is implacably hostile to all. And Adalo? I have already heard the name. Isn't it--?"

"No matter who it is," thundered the uncle. "But you are my nephew, and have insulted, roused the lovely girl to furious rage at my table, in my tent. How would you in Burdigala--"

A gloomy, significant glance from the young Roman checked his thoughtless speech.

"You must appease her. Now leave me; I don't wish to see you again to-day. Or stay--I will follow her myself. Poor little thing!"

Ausonius rose excitedly from the couch and hurried out. Herculanus and the slave who acted as cup-bearer remained alone in the tent.

"Is it so already?" muttered the former angrily through his set teeth. "Does the childish infatuated old fool reveal his plans so openly? To work, Davus! Well or ill--to work! Have you the hemlock? Have you enough?"

"I think it will do. If it fail the first time, you still have some in the other little vial?" Herculanus nodded. The slave went on:

"He complained yesterday of all sorts of bad feelings. I'll risk it soon, before he gets well again. But--one thing more--the Barbarian girl will sleep alone to-night."

"What? Not in the tent with the teamsters' wives?

"No; a contagious eruption broke out there last night: I heard Saturninus give the order to pitch another tent at once on the opposite side for the prisoner."

"But he will have her closely guarded."

"To-night he is going on a reconnoitring expedition with all his incorruptible Illyrians. Batavians are to be on duty: they are fond of drinking; perhaps--"

"Silence! This ring as a reward for the news. We don't yet know whether the plot against the old man will succeed, so we'll have two strings ready for our bow. And I hate her. I don't hate him; only I must have my inheritance quickly. So to-night! Hush, Prosper is coming! About the poison--in the two little vials--we'll say more later; you know where and when. First we'll wait to see what this night will bring forth."

* * * * *

Meanwhile kind-hearted Ausonius had vainly sought the angry fugitive. He looked eagerly down the long wide streets of the camp which crossed in a square at the prÆtorium--in vain. Now he hoped to find her in her favorite hiding-place, the secluded spot with the tall fir-tree; but it was empty. Nor was she perched among the branches: he scanned them carefully.

Shaking his head he walked on still farther toward the northwest, to the wall itself. Here he heard voices raised as if disputing, a soldier's and Bissula's. Now he saw Rignomer, the Batavian sentry, with lowered spear forcing back the slowly retreating girl. The man spoke half in German, half in vulgar Latin; for at that time the Batavians and Alemanni, though both Germans, found it as hard to understand one another as the sailors of the Lower Rhine and the peasants of Lake Constance do at the present day.

"Back, you red elf, you beautiful Idise, you nymph, and never try it again! It would be a pity to hurt yourself. The wall is too high and the ditch too deep--" Then the soldier recognized the Prefect, saluted him, and went back to the top of the wall.

Bissula, noticing the respectful salute, had turned and, still violently agitated, rushed to Ausonius, exclaiming: "Father, set me free at once! at once!"

Ausonius shook his head. "Consider--"

"If you really catch defenceless girls and threaten to kill them by the sword, you glorious Romans, as your nephew--"

"When did he do that?"

"Never mind! Send me with a safe escort, with a letter from you beyond your outposts."

"Where shall I send you?"

Bissula remained silent a short time. Her face was deeply flushed.

"Where? To the place where you always gaze in your reveries? Out yonder?"

"No," she replied, setting her teeth; "eastward, to my home. Then I will take care of myself."

"Child, you must stay till the war is over."

"No, I must go," she answered. "I belong to my people, not to you. It is not right, it is abominable, for me to sleep safe here in your protection, drink Roman wine from golden goblets, while my kindred are suffering want and danger. Let me go!" She raised her hand. The gesture was meant to be an entreaty, but it resembled a threat.

"Cease this folly, little one," Ausonius now said, more seriously. "My nephew's idle, unseemly words offended you; I reproved him for them; he will beg your pardon,"--Bissula made a contemptuous movement,--"and everything will be forgotten."

"Shall I forget my people?"

"Forget? No; but gradually become alienated from them. You look amazed. Well, let this trivial incident hasten the important disclosure I have to make. Are you thinking of leaving me? Give it up, sweet girl!" He controlled himself and went on more calmly: "My little daughter, you will never leave me again."

Bissula opened her eyes in the utmost astonishment, gazing at the Roman with the expression of a captured deer. The iron tramp of a marching cohort was heard close at hand, but the tents still concealed it from their gaze.

"What do you mean?" she stammered.

"I will tell you," said Ausonius in a firmer, sterner tone than he had ever used. The opposition he now suspected irritated him, and he was determined to execute his will. "I will tell you that I have resolved to fulfil my former plan. I shall take you as my guest for an indefinite time. As my little daughter," he added cautiously, "with me to Burdigala."

"Never!" cried Bissula, raising both arms in the wildest terror.

"Yes, most certainly."

"But I will not go. I--away from the lake--from--from my people? No, no, no!"

"Yes, yes, yes! This is not tyrannical nor cruel, as you think now."

"Who will compel me to go away?"

"I. We compel children whom we are educating to do what we desire, for their own good. You do not understand your real welfare: I will force you to do so."

"But I am no child; I am--" She advanced toward him defiantly.

"You are a captive. Do not forget that. You must obey your master, and he--"

"Is here," said a deep voice.

Saturninus stepped between them. With a firm hand he held Bissula, who had turned, reeled as though giddy, and tried again to scale the wall. "Do not forget that, Ausonius."

Angered by the interruption, perplexed, and half ashamed, the other drew back. "What are you doing?"

"I am protecting my captive."

"Against whom?"

"Against every threat: against wiles as well as compulsion--even though well meant."

Both gazed at him in silence, but the girl's gratitude was blended with a slight thrill of fear--fear of this protector too.

Ausonius was the first to find words. In tones which revealed wrath, jealousy, and suspicion, he exclaimed: "And who will protect her against you?"

"Nothing and no one, except my own will."

"Oh, set me free!" cried Bissula, raising her clasped hands despairingly to the Tribune.

"That you may tell the Barbarians all you have seen and heard in our camp? No, little maid. You will stay--perhaps forever. Have no thought of escape! Here, countryman!" He beckoned to a soldier. "Take her to the new tent; keep guard there until I leave tonight; then Rignomer the Batavian will relieve you. And listen: tell my scribe that during the day he must see that she--" The rest was whispered in the ear of the Illyrian, who led the wondering, bewildered girl away by the arm.

Ausonius and Saturninus parted without exchanging a single word: the latter saluted respectfully; but the angry Prefect did not, or would not, see the farewell.