'Venusta,' said Lucius, 'I have been thinking of that slave girl, the dark Phoenician maid, Saronia; I see her not in her accustomed place. I feel a keen interest in that weird beauty. What of her? Is she dead, or what?'

'She is as good as dead to us, dear. She is at the Temple, and has been initiated as a priestess for the presiding goddess.'

'Priestess! priestess! What does it all mean? Light dawns! I saw her—yes, I saw her—as I passed through the city yesterday. Now I understand. Hear me. As I passed near the great theatre some maidens of the Temple came that way. I stood still, with bared head; the sounds of greeting were stayed until they went with solemn tread; and, as they passed, one with eyes deep-looking like the ocean's depths, turned them full on me, and gazed into my inner soul, and, like a barque which strikes a sunken rock and staggers, so did my spirit. I did my best to divine who she was, but all was dark, and I moved on with clouded mind. Now I know. Why is she there? Some great mystery hangs over it. I am not usually given to fear, but somehow I feel a sorrow of this event.'

Then did Venusta tell him of what had occurred—told him that only which she thought would screen herself and Nika.

The old commander saw too plainly that one side only of the story had been told, and felt confirmed in his suspicions when he saw his daughter's eyes suffused with tears. He, with that true manliness which permeated him, said but little, for fear he might know too much, and deeper wound the pent-up feelings of his child.

That evening the Roman nobleman arrived, and was warmly welcomed by Lucius, and introduced to Venusta and Nika; and Varro was soon at home, for at first sight he loved the sailor's daughter, and at once made up his mind to lay siege; but, Roman-like, he would mature his plans before declaring war. Besides, he knew not if a rival were in the field and would join the girl as firm ally.

It is well known how difficult it is to entertain a stranger the first quarter of an hour. One would know his pet theories and touch on them, so that the newcomer might lead off and rejoice; but even the astute mind of the wife of Lucius was puzzled to divine the inclinations of the Roman—he was impenetrable, a perfect blank; but the truth was this: the Roman tactician had but one thought just then, and that was of Nika, and it developed so rapidly that it was undiscovered. Had it been, it were not food for conversation; so Venusta opened fire with the beauties of the city, for the weather at that season of the year was nearly always fine.

'Well, how dost thou like our noble city, the envied of the world? Hast seen the great Gymnasium, the Serapion, the theatre?'

'Yea, my lady, I have, as much as one can in so short a time as I have lived within the great heart of this beautiful place. Rome is great, but Ephesus is lovely—the very air seems laden with rejoicings. Surely this must be the Elysian city on earth!'

'Thou art too complimentary; but, as thou sayest, it is lovely. Didst thou notice the double colonnade around the Agora, and the many mighty statues there? And what thinkest thou of the lovely little Odeum nestling at the feet of Mount Pion, and the great Stadium around the hillside to the west? Is it not noble?'

'Yes, it is fine, a magnificent racecourse; and I am told seventy thousand people will not fill it to overflowing. Is this so?'

'Yes; and you should see the charioteers in full swing.'

'But thou hast not spoken of the gem of the city, the great Temple of Diana?'

'No, I have not.'

'I passed the Temple on my way hither, and I shall not soon forget when I stood without the Parabolus walls, and, looking through the entrance gate, gazed on the flight of marble steps leading up to the mighty building. I have seen nothing like it in my splendid Rome. Not only is the Temple great, but the very place on which it stands, surrounded with its sacred groves, seems a fit place for the birth of a goddess. I saw the shrine of Hecate lifting its head behind the mightier home of Diana, and heard songs of worship coming forth from both, sometimes low, as the murmur of a sinless child, then rising in great waves—billowy waves of jubilant harmony—until I seemed bound to the place by an invisible chain.'

Just then Chios was announced, and Varro saw by Nika's eyes that she had something more than respect for the Greek. Venusta was glad Chios had come, for she feared the Roman might continue to speak of the Temple, and that the conversation might drift towards the priestesses, and the name of Saronia be mentioned.

Chios appeared happy, save for the far-away look in his eyes. Nika was the only one who could read him and solve his abstraction. She spoke kindly to him, and gradually allowed her manner to change to freezing-point. This was strategic: she showed the Roman she valued little the friendship of the Greek, and Varro was deceived, and thought it true. There was no need for battle against this Ephesian artist. He could even use him to further his own ends to win the girl. No, Nika had slighted Chios—treated him coldly. He could now treat him courteously and fraternize; but, could he have looked into the girl's heart, he would have seen the image of Chios engraved there.

'How long,' said Varro, 'hast thou been in Ephesus?'

'From childhood,' replied Chios.

'And hast thou followed thy profession from youth?'

'Yes, and I love it—am wedded to it for life.'

'What meanest thou? Wilt thou never wed some sweet Ionian girl?'

'Never! As I tell thee, I am wedded to my art. I shall never wed again. Why should I, seeing I love it dearly, as strongly as yonder priesthood love their faith and are content? So am I.'

At this saying of Chios the beautiful mouth of the Roman girl was slightly agitated, and her hand closed tightly on an almond flower, and its petals fell to the ground.

Then came Lucius and his wife, and all joined in pleasant gossip. Varro spoke proudly of Rome, and Lucius of Britain, and the time sped on. The young noble left, but Chios remained.

Nika was ill at ease, her mind was a storm, and, throwing a mantle over her shoulders, she said playfully:

'Come, Chios; take me to the balcony, that we may breathe the fresh night air.'

She was impatient to get at the mind of the Greek. Quick-sighted, she had already read the mind of the Roman. What did she care? She would be bold.

'Chios, why didst thou say thou wilt never wed? Is it really so?'

'Yes, Nika, it is true.'

'Chios, we have known each other long, and have been more than friends. We have been like children of one mother! Thou hast ever spoken freely and kindly to me, and I would ask thee one question—one little question—that is all.'

'Say on, Nika.'

'Didst thou ever love?'

'I may have.'

'I thought so much,' replied she; 'and where is that love? Does it live on, or is it—dead?'

'It lives, but I am trying to kill it.'

'Wouldst thou be a murderer, Chios?'

'No, I mean well.'

'Tell me thy secret, and I will bury it in the grave of my heart. Whom—dost—thou—love?'

'I cannot tell thee, but she is not a Roman.'

'Then I know—it is Saronia. Let me lean upon thy arm, Chios. Lead me within—the night is chill.'