long, yellow bars of brightness, while all else was still in gloom.
Drusus pushed on with confidence, and soon the gurgle of the tiny
cataract told him that he was near the old cypress. A few steps more,
and a figure rose from out the fern thicket. It was Cornelia. Her hair
was tumbling loosely over her shoulders; she wore a soft, light-blue
dress that covered her arms and her feet. In the moonlight her face
and hands appeared as bloodless as white marble.

"I knew you would come, Quintus," she cried. "I couldn't say farewell
to you, in the presence of my uncle!"

"My beautiful!" cried Drusus; and he caught her in his arms.

The moments that followed were as bitter-sweet as may be conceivable.
Each knew that they had small hope of an honourable realization of
their love one for another; that the moment of parting would soon
come. But for the instant they were in Elysium, caught out of mortal
care and mortal sorrow, and knowing nothing but the pure delight of
the other's presence. Then, at last, their talk became less
enraptured; the vision of Olympus faded little by little; the stern
reality confronted them in all its seriousness.

"Cornelia," said Quintus, at length, "you are still a very young
woman. This day's heart-breakings may, perhaps, be long painful to
you; but the pangs will grow faint in time. You and I may still
cherish fondness in our hearts for each other, but how dare we
reasonably hope for more? Evil times are at hand. If your uncle's
party prevail in the struggle, my ruin is assured. But not yours.
There are many worthy men who would be proud to take in marriage the
niece of the next consul; and with one of these you can live happily.