times greater than that which he desired. He thought that he might have
won her gradually, and besides as one loving him. She would have
wreathed his door, rubbed it with wolf's fat, and then sat as his wife
by his hearth on the sheepskin. He would have heard from her mouth the
sacramental: "Where thou art, Caius, there am I, Caia." And she would
have been his forever. Why did he not act thus? True, he had been
ready so to act. But now she is gone, and it may be impossible to find
her; and should he find her, perhaps he will cause her death, and should
he not cause her death, neither she nor Aulus nor Pomponia Græcina will
favor him. Here anger raised the hair on his head again; but his anger
turned now, not against the house of Aulus, or Lygia, but against
Petronius. Petronius was to blame for everything. Had it not been for
him Lygia would not have been forced to wander; she would be his
betrothed, and no danger would be hanging over her dear head. But now
all is past, and it is too late to correct the evil which will not yield
to correction.

"Too late!" And it seemed to him that a gulf had opened before his
feet. He did not know what to begin, how to proceed, whither to betake
himself. Acte repeated as an echo the words, "Too late," which from
another's mouth sounded like a death sentence. He understood one thing,
however, that he must find Lygia, or something evil would happen to him.

And wrapping himself mechanically in his toga, he was about to depart
without taking farewell even of Acte, when suddenly the curtain
separating the entrance from the atrium was pushed aside, and he saw
before him the pensive figure of Pomponia Græcina.

Evidently she too had heard of the disappearance of Lygia, and, judging
that she could see Acte more easily than Aulus, had come for news to