Jerusalem."

"And a pretty funeral," the girl remarked, thoughtfully. "Jerusalem is
half-way to Hades."

The Roman matron turned, and put her arm around the waist of the girl
and drew her close. A young man rose from his chair and approached
them. He was Vergilius, son of Varro, and of equestrian knighthood.
His full name was Quintus Vergilius Varro, but all knew the youth by
his nomen. Tall and erect, with curly blond locks and blue eyes and
lips delicately curved, there was in that hall no ancestral mask or
statue so nobly favored. He had been taught by an old philosopher to
value truth as the better part of honor--a view not common then, but
therein was a new light, spreading mysteriously.

"Dear Lady Lucia," said he, "I cannot amuse you with idle words. I
fear to speak, and yet silence would serve me ill. I offer not the
strength of my arms nor the fleetness of my feet, for they may fail me
tomorrow; nor my courage, for that has never been tried; nor the renown
of my fathers, for that is not mine to give; nor my life, for that
belongs to my country; nor my fortune, for I should blush to offer what
may be used to buy cattle. I would give a thing greater and more
lasting than all of these. It is my love."

The girl turned half away, blushing pink. All had flung off the mask
of comedy and now wore a look of surprise.

"By my faith!" said the poet, "this young knight meant his words."

"A man of sincerity, upon my soul!" said the old philosopher. "I have