midday
From far away -- where the marshes stretched their limitless expanse toward the sea -- came the melancholy cry of a bittern , calling to his absent mate . A vague longing surged in the strong man 's heart ; he stretched out his arms up to the dark , starlit canopy above , and a sigh , half impatient , wholly melancholy , escaped his half-closed lips . His eyes tried to pierce the marble walls behind which there bloomed -- stately and proud -- a beautiful white lily . Wholly against his will , the man 's thoughts flew back to that midday hour in the Forum , when Dea Flavia had stood before him in all the exquisite glory of her youth and her loveliness , with that wilful curl round her chiselled lips and the delicate brows drawn together in a frown of child-like obstinacy . How beautiful she was and how strangely pathetic had been her isolation in the midst of so much grandeur . Even now he thought of her -- asleep possibly somewhere in this gorgeous palace -- all alone , despite the thousands of slaves around her ; friendless , despite the might of the House of Cæsar of which she was so proud . Through one of the tiny windows there peeped a flickering light .