Vergilius | Page 3

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
put my hope in him, and so shall Rome. A lucky girl is she, for has he
not riches, talent, honor, temperance, courage, and the beauty of a god?
And was I not his teacher?"
"My brave Vergilius," the matron answered, "you are like the knights
of old I have heard my father tell of. They had such a way with
them--never a smile and a melancholy look in their faces when they
spoke of love. I give you the crown of gallantry, and, if she be willing,
you shall walk with her in the garden. That is your reward."
Vergilius, advancing, took the girl's hand and kissed it.
"Will you go with me?" said he.
"On one condition," she answered, looking down at the folds of her

tunic.
"And it is?"
"That you will entertain me with philosophy and the poets," she
answered, with a smile.
"And with no talk of love," the matron added, as Arria took his arm.
They walked through the long hall of the palace, over soft rugs and
great mosaics, and between walls aglow with tints of sky and garden.
These two bore with them a tender feeling as they passed the figures of
embattled horse and host in carven wood, and mural painting and
colored mosaic and wrought metal--symbols of the martial spirit of the
empire now oddly in contrast with their own. They came out upon a
peristyle overlooking an ample garden wherein were vines, flowers,
and fruit trees.
"You have a way of words," said she. "It is almost possible to believe
you."
He stopped and for a long moment looked into her eyes. "I love you,
sweet girl," he said, softly; "I love you. As I live, I speak the truth."
"And you a man!" she exclaimed, incredulously.
"Ay, strange as it may be, a Roman."
"My mother has told me," said she, looking down at her sandal, "that
when a man speaks, it is well to listen but never to believe."
"They are not easy to understand--these men and women," said he,
thoughtfully. "Sometimes I think they would be nobler if they were
dumb as dogs. Albeit I suppose they would find a new way of lying.
But, O sweet sister of Appius, try to believe me, though you believe no
other, and I--I shall believe you always."
"You had better not," said she, with a merry glance.

"I must."
"But you will doubt me soon, for I shall say that I do not love you."
For a little he knew not how to answer. She turned away, looking off at
the Capitoline, where the toil and art of earth had wrought to show the
splendor of heaven. Its beautiful, barbaric temples were glowing in the
sunlight.
"Life would be too serious if there were no dissimulation." She looked
up at him as she spoke, and he saw a little quiver in her curved lips.
"That bow of your lips--I should think it fashioned by Praxiteles--and it
is for the arrows of truth."
"But a girl--she must deceive a little."
They were now among the vines.
"I do not understand you."
"Stupid fellow!" said she, in a whisper, as she turned, looking up at him.
"Son of Varo, lovers are not ever to be trusted. Shall I tell you a story?
One day I was in the Via Sacra and a young man caught and held me
for a moment and