"She was, Augusta."

"At whose command?"

"At Cæsar's command."

Poppæa looked still more attentively at Lygia, who stood with bowed
head, now raising her bright eyes to her with curiosity, now covering
them with their lids. Suddenly a frown appeared between the brows of
the Augusta. Jealous of her own beauty and power, she lived in
continual alarm lest at some time a fortunate rival might ruin her, as
she had ruined Octavia. Hence every beautiful face in the palace roused
her suspicion. With the eye of a critic she took in at once every part
of Lygia's form, estimated every detail of her face, and was frightened.
"That is simply a nymph," thought she, "and 'twas Venus who gave birth
to her." On a sudden this came to her mind which had never come before
at sight of any beauty,--that she herself had grown notably older!
Wounded vanity quivered in Poppæa, alarm seized her, and various fears
shot through her head. "Perhaps Nero has not seen the girl, or, seeing
her through the emerald, has not appreciated her. But what would happen
should he meet such a marvel in the daytime, in sunlight? Moreover she
is not a slave, she is the daughter of a king,--a king of barbarians,
it is true, but a king. Immortal gods! she is as beautiful as I am, but
younger!" The wrinkle between her brows increased, and her eyes began
to shine under their golden lashes with a cold gleam.

"Hast thou spoken with Cæsar?"

"No, Augusta."