“ ‘The chief himself is a very tall young man, and is called Beric by his followers. Four of them are also of his race, tall and very fair like him. There is also a youth who lives in the house. He belongs to the band, but appears to be a native of Rome. He sometimes comes down and makes purchases in Rhegium. The house cannot be approached from below without an alarm being given, owing to the strictness of the watch; but I could lead a body of troops high up above it, so as to come down upon the rear of the house and cut off all escape when another band comes up from below.’ I told him that his information was valuable, and that he was to come here tomorrow evening at eight o’clock to lead a party of light armed troops up into the hills.”
“And you will send them, father?” Berenice broke in; “surely you will not take advantage of this treachery.”
“I have no choice but to do so,” the general said gravely. “As a father I would give my right hand to save the man who preserved your life; as a Roman soldier my duty is to capture the outlaw, Beric, by any means possible. Pollio will tell you the same.”
Berenice looked at her husband, who stood in consternation and grief at the news. “Do you say this too, Pollio?”
Pollio did not answer, but the general spoke for him. “He can say nothing else, Berenice. To a Roman soldier duty is everything, and were he ordered to arrest his own father and lead him to execution he could not hesitate.”
“But I am not a soldier—” Berenice began passionately.
The general held up his hand suddenly. “Hush, Berenice, not a word farther! I am a Roman general. If you say one word that would clash with my duty I should order you to your chamber and place a soldier there on guard over you. Now I will leave you with your husband;” and the general left the room.
“What do you say, Pollio? Will you suffer this man, who saved your wife, who risked his life for your cousin, and is, as it seems, your cousin by marriage, to be foully captured and crucified?”
“I am a soldier, Berenice; do not tempt me to break my duty. You heard what your father said.”
Berenice stamped her foot. “Does your duty go so far, Pollio, that like my father you would place a guard at my door if I said aught that would seem to run counter to your duty?”
“Not at all, Berenice,” he said with a smile; “say aught you like. I hear as a husband but not as a soldier.”
“Well, that is something,” Berenice said, mollified. “Well, Pollio, if you will not warn Beric of his danger I will do so. Have I your permission to act as I choose?”
“My full permission, dear. Do as you like; act as you choose; you have beforehand my approval. If you fail and harm comes of it I will stand by you and share your punishment; but tell me nothing of what you would do beforehand. I trust you wholly, but for my sake, if not for your own, be not rash. Remember, if by any means it becomes known that you aided Beric to escape, both our lives are surely forfeited.”
“Thank you, Pollio,” Berenice said, throwing her arms round his neck, “that is spoken like my husband. You shall know nothing, and I will save Beric.”
XXI
Old Friends
Beric and Aemilia were sitting on the following day in the shade in front of the house, where Porus had erected a verandah of boughs to keep off the sun, when they observed a female peasant and an elderly man ascending the hill. They were still some distance down, and the man spoke to one of the farm men who was on his way down the hill.
“They are coming this way,” Aemilia said; “they have passed the point where the paths fork. She seems to find that basket she is carrying heavy, and no wonder, for it is a steep climb under the midday sun.”
Stopping once or twice to get breath the two peasants approached.
“She is a good looking girl, Beric,” Aemilia said.
“Our host has two or three nieces down in the town,” Beric replied; “I expect it is one of them. Yes, she is certainly pretty, and not so browned and sunburnt as most of these peasant girls are.”
As they came close the girl stopped and looked at the house, and then, instead of going to the entrance, left her companion and walked across to the verandah. A smile came across her face.
“Shall I tell you your fortune?” she said abruptly to Aemilia.
“It is told,” Aemilia said; “to be a farmer’s wife. But what do you know of fortunes?”
“I can tell you the past if not the future,” the young woman said, setting down her basket. “May I do so?”
“You are a strange girl,” Aemilia said, “but tell me what you can.”
“I can see an amphitheatre,” the girl went on, “a great one, greater than that across at Messina, and it is crowded with people. In the front row there sits a man past middle age and a lady and a girl. In the centre of the arena is a young girl in white.”
“Hush, hush!” Aemilia cried, leaping to her feet, “say no more. You know me, though how I cannot guess.”
“I see another scene,” the girl went on without heeding her; “it is a hut. It must belong to some savage people. It is quite unlike our cottages. There is an old woman there and a man and a young girl. The old woman
