Plautia walked homeward with a sweeping haughty step, leaving her head and face exposed to the dim rays of the moon as if contemptuously careless of risk. When she reached the middle of the dusky orchard which flanked the dwelling of Tucca, she stopped short, with her head cast down, as if struck by a sudden thought. It may have been a cruelly acute flash of reflection piercing her pain-drowsied mind with spasmodic rigour, for, the next moment she sank on her knees with a smothered groan, and thence on to her face, with her arms outstretched and her hand clutching the turf. Here, in the solitude and silence of the night, the most dread hour for unhappy thoughts, she lay prone and helpless in the very lap of mental torture. Every external condition was absent which, in the light of day, might have lent distraction and relief. Her face, buried in the mossy turf, was dry-eyed; nor could the stinging pangs of wounded pride arouse a momentary diversion from the horrible oppression and stupor of despair by a fit of frenzied rage, to which her inflammable nature was at all times prone.

The time flew on. The moon sank nearer and nearer to the horizon, and was suddenly swallowed up in a craggy mass of cloud, rising and spreading upward from the western sea. It moved on swiftly and massively. Myriad after myriad of bright stars disappeared behind the hurrying edge of its pitchy mantle rolling onward, in a serrated line, from north to south. Before was the fast narrowing expanse of glittering radiance; behind the unfathomable blackness of Erebus.

Fitful, but louder murmurs swept up from the sea in place of the gentle uniform breathing of the early night, and the [pg 224]darkling waters shook with a brisker frolic of dancing frothy combs, and dull shimmering streaks and flashes of phosphorescent light, as if exultingly waking to the dim watchword of a twinkling storm spirit.

Still Plautia remained motionless, as if bereft of life. The gathering gloom of the outer air had thickened, amid the grove, into inky blackness impenetrable to the eye. The tree stems and boles were entirely obliterated, as well as the shape of the woman lying prostrate amid them, steeped in oblivious anguish. A sharp short gust of wind swayed the invisible branches above, and dashed noisily amongst their leaves; after which a lull, and a dreamy rustling, as in the calm depth of a summer night. Then came the fierce rush of a blast roaring amongst the branches and bending them over as with the flattening pressure of the hand of a Titan, whilst a whizzing tempest of rain and hail swept along in company, and made its shrill rattling on the leaves heard amidst the bluster. It made its way freely through, and fell, with its icy coldness, on to the bare head of her beneath. It roused her. She lifted her head; and raising herself slowly, so as to lean upon her hands, she gazed stupidly into the Stygian blackness which enveloped her. The roar of the storm filled her ears, whereas her last remembrance was of the calm stars and moonlight. Her mind re-asserted itself, and recovered from the bonds of its torture-bed for the present, as from a dread nightmare.

Shivering, she raised her chilled limbs from the ground, and, pulling her cloak around her head, she stood, amid the roar and dashing of the elements, striving to pierce the darkness and determine in which direction to grope her way from the grove. Failing in this she stooped to feel for the narrow footpath worn in the short grass. She was successful, and, assuming that the storm proceeded from the open sea, and consequently more or less from the direction of Tucca’s cottage, she commenced the tardy, troublesome, but necessitous process of following up the path, in the face of the wind, by the assiduous touch of her fingers, in a stooping and sometimes creeping posture.

When she had gone a few yards in this toilsome manner she caught sight of a glimmering light. It disappeared, and she called at the top of her voice, but the furious roaring of [pg 225]the wind amid the trees rendered her tones inaudible to herself. The light reappeared much closer, and as she saw it coming to meet her she stopped. It proved to be carried by the ancient husbandman himself, attended by her faithful slave, a woman of middle age. Tucca held the lantern as much under the shelter of his sackcloth storm-cloak as was possible, in order to save its feeble flame from the wind; and as it barely gave light to their feet, and their senses were pre-occupied with the bluster of the elements, they failed to perceive the form of Plautia standing motionless in the path awaiting them. Speaking being useless, the latter stayed their steps by laying her hand on Tucca’s shoulder, so much to that individual’s sudden consternation that he very nearly dropped the lantern. Turning the struggling candle-rays up to her pale, stern face, he heaved a sigh of gratification, and, scarcely waiting for her sign to return homeward, he doubled on his track with alacrity, being too well satisfied already with his experience of the night. To cover the short distance to the house was a labour of no small difficulty in the teeth of the tempest. The light was extinguished at once, but that was of no consequence to the old man, who knew as well by night as day every inch of the homestead, where he had passed the whole of his lengthy days. Plautia held to his shoulder, and her cloak was gripped by her slave, and, in this manner, they gained the cottage, with their garments dripping and their faces smarting with the wind, rain, and hail. As soon as her voice could be heard, Plautia’s attendant began volubly to testify to her delight at the success of her expedition, in which she had almost compelled the grumbling Tucca to join; but Plautia curtly checked her and called for some wine, which she drank copiously. Tasting a mouthful of food she then retired to her room, followed by her faithful retainer, who would have given her chance of freedom to have had her burning curiosity satisfied as to the errand of her mistress that night. But the pale, pre-occupied, stern face of the lady, together with an ominous, fretful impatience of manner, daunted her, so she proceeded in silence with her duties of disrobing and preparing for rest.

Plautia lay and tossed the night through, till nearly dawn, in sleepless wretchedness. The shrieking of the storm around [pg 226]the creaking, shuddering cottage seemed a fitting accompaniment to the incessant gnawing of her bitter disappointment, and it was long ere sheer exhaustion brought an uneasy slumber to her relief.

A loud knocking at the outer door of the house awoke her. She could scarcely realise that her eyes had closed at all, and sat up to listen. The narrow little window, near the ceiling, was faintly luminous with the struggling light of very early day, and, though the wind was still high, it had palpably moderated. She could hear the loud, regular snore of Tucca within, as yet undisturbed by the early caller, whoever it might be; and it was not until the pounding of the door had been repeated thrice, that the slumberer’s voice was heard demanding the name and business of the visitor. Plautia’s suspicions were keenly excited, and she rose from her pallet and placed her ear to the crevice of the door.

‘Who is it, and what do you want at this time?’ asked Tucca.

‘Open the confounded door and see!’ was shouted in reply.

‘Is it you, noble Zeno?’

‘It is, noble Tucca.’

The bar of the door was undone, and Tucca said, ‘I thought it was your voice, good Zeno—come in, but don’t speak so loud lest you waken——’

Plautia could hear no more, but she easily supplied the remainder of the speech.

‘It is just what I came to do,’ returned the other; ‘I am grieved to do it at such an unseasonable hour, on such an unseasonable morning, as well for my own sake as hers, but I have no option. Go, knock her up, and tell her who waits to speak with her. While you are doing that I will keep the cold out with a drink of your best, Tucca.’

Plautia heard the old man remove the trap-door, which covered the steps descending to his cellar, and upon his return he came and tapped at her door.

‘Well!’ she asked.

‘So please you, noble lady, I am loth to disturb you, but I am bidden to it by Zeno, Caesar’s steward, who has come to have speech with you, and waits even now.’