We noticed Martialis in the last chapter issuing from the villa Jovis. The sparkle in his eye and the half smile on his lips, as he hummed an air during his rapid walk down to the little southern landing-place, betokened an errand of an agreeable nature. He rowed himself across to the mainland in a fisherman’s skiff, and, thence, taking the road to Surrentum, was not long ere he stood in the shop of Masthlion, with the joyful and surprised NeÆra in his arms.

‘You grow more beautiful each time I see you, NeÆra,’ he said, pressing a kiss on her lips.

‘Foolish!’ she murmured, smiling, and sinking her eyes before his fervent gaze. ‘And you, Lucius,’ she added, laying the point of her finger on his toga, ‘you are no Centurion to-day—you are in plain woollen—you are not for the road?’

‘I have reached the end of my journey,’ he replied, drawing her nearer.

‘Your breastplate and cloak become you the best, but they mean haste away. This is the most welcome to me, for it is your own dress and——’

‘And says that, for a time at least, its wearer is his own master, to spend his leisure as he lists,’ said Martialis, finishing her speech and fondling the hand which rested on the bosom of his garment. ‘I have come here, foolish or not, to pass the few hours at my command. Will you offer me no more hospitality than this shop can give?’

‘Come,’ she said, giving him a divine smile, and holding out her hand to lead him inside; ‘but ah, Lucius, we are so poor and simple!’

The little dwelling-room, under the industrious and fastidious hands of herself and her mother, was seldom far removed [pg 175]from a state of scrupulous cleanliness and genial comfort. The articles of furniture which it contained were well worn, but speckless; and a bright wood fire, burning in a brazier, cheered and warmed the senses of an in-comer. At the door NeÆra ran abruptly off, and her lover was left to the company of the patient, mild-eyed Tibia, her mother. The latter was engaged in scrubbing a brazen pot into a sunlike lustre, and although there were grounds for reasonable familiarity of bearing toward her visitor, yet the attempt came awkwardly and uncomfortably enough. This wore off, however, in a measure with the free, easy bearing of the young man, who sat and warmed himself at the fireside. When NeÆra subsequently reappeared, she shone upon him in the best robes her slender wardrobe could furnish. They were modest and simple indeed. A few coins were all their worth, but poor as they were, her beauty made them seem handsome. Fresh and neat from her toilet, with her clear delicately-tinted skin and glossy hair, her person seemed to diffuse a delicious sense of purity and sweetness. She smiled upon the Centurion in the proud consciousness of her charms, and the dame Tibia, also, could not help paying her an especial look of approval.

‘How the child is growing into a woman,’ she murmured beneath her breath.

NeÆra reached forth her hand to her lover, and the drapery of her tunic, falling back a little, displayed a rounded arm and wrist of the whiteness of the snowdrift, to which the tinge of toil-accustomed fingers bore a slight contrast.

‘Come,’ she said; ‘we will go and see my father.’

Taking his hand she led him to the workshop in the rear of the house, abutting on the patch of garden. On trying to open the door they found it fast, but they could hear the movements of the potter within. NeÆra knocked and called upon her father loudly.

The bolt was drawn within, and they stood face to face with Masthlion, who was surprised at seeing his daughter’s companion.

‘Welcome, Centurion,’ he said. ‘Though NeÆra had little need to bring you in here amid the clay of a potter’s shop.’

The room was of good size, and the floor consisted of hard-trodden earth. A window, or rather an opening which could be closed by a shutter, was on one side, and against it [pg 176]stood a bench, on which was a litter of tools, as well as one or two unfinished clay models of figures, with which Masthlion was fond of varying his time. In the centre of the floor was the potter’s wheel, which gave him his legitimate occupation. A large oven stood on the other side, and close by was also a small furnace. As there were to be seen lumps of unshaped glass lying scattered about in various parts of the workshop, as well as relics of glass bottles and other vessels, together with the tools by which they were produced, it was obvious, that the art of glass-making formed also a pursuit of the potter, either as a hobby, or as a regular avocation. Masthlion himself was attired in his working clothes, and was smeared with clay and grime of the furnace from head to foot. From a habit of frequently drawing his hand across his forehead, his ample brow was of the colour of one of the little images on the bench; and, as this action was sometimes varied by a similar attention to other parts of his features, his face, in complexion, was little removed from the hue of his clothes. NeÆra clasped her hands across his shoulder and leant her face toward his, for she was as tall, if not a little above his stature. The contrast between her lovely pure countenance and his oddly clay-daubed visage was so comical that Martialis smiled.

‘Come, father,’ said NeÆra in his ear; ‘you have wrought enough for to-day. It is not often we have a visitor.’

‘Such a visitor—no!’ replied Masthlion, smiling. ‘Away! Leave me in my den—you want my room, not my company. Send your mother in here also, and keep the house yourselves.’

‘No, no!’

‘Stand off, girl, or farewell to your finery—think you that the soil on me is cleaner than that on the floor?’

He pushed her gently away from him and looked her over with a fond gaze of admiration. ‘Go, and trouble me not—you have troubled me enough already.’

‘I have come this day to relieve you of her,’ interposed Martialis.

‘Eh?’ cried Masthlion, with a mighty start at this apt and sudden speech. His face flushed and paled under its coating of clay, and a momentary tremor passed through him, whilst the fair skin of NeÆra flooded crimson, and her eyes fell.