"Dost thou love her, Acte?" inquired Vinicius, gloomily.

"Yes, I love her." And tears glittered in the eyes of the freedwoman.

"Thou lovest her because she has not repaid thee with hatred, as she has
me."

Acte looked at him for a time as if hesitating, or as if wishing to
learn if he spoke sincerely; then she said,--"O blind and passionate
man--she loved thee."

Vinicius sprang up under the influence of those words, as if possessed.
"It is not true."

She hated him. How could Acte know? Would Lygia make a confession to
her after one day's acquaintance? What love is that which prefers
wandering, the disgrace of poverty, the uncertainty of to-morrow, or a
shameful death even, to a wreath-bedecked house, in which a lover is
waiting with a feast? It is better for him not to hear such things, for
he is ready to go mad. He would not have given that girl for all
Cæsar's treasures, and she fled. What kind of love is that which dreads
delight and gives pain? Who can understand it? Who can fathom it?
Were it not for the hope that he should find her, he would sink a sword
in himself. Love surrenders; it does not take away. There were moments
at the house of Aulus when he himself believed in near happiness, but
now he knows that she hated him, that she hates him, and will die with
hatred in her heart.

But Acte, usually mild and timid, burst forth in her turn with