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His eyes, glowing with dull and sullen hatred, searched the face of Dea Flavia, trying to read what went on behind the pure, straight brow and those liquid blue eyes, deep as the fathomless sea. "What is to be done?" said Ancyrus, the elder, with a pitiable look of perplexity directed at the Augusta.
And the children of Lir asked for news of all the men of Dea, and above all of Lir, and Bodb Dearg and their people.
"Get up, girl," said Licinia roughly, "and staunch thy scratch elsewhere, away from my lady's sight. Hark at the baggage! One would think she is really hurt. Get thee gone, I say, ere I give thee better cause for whining." But in a moment Dea Flavia was on her feet. With a quick cry of pity she ran to her slave, kneeled beside her and with a fine white cloth herself tried to staunch the wound.
Standing at a respectful distance they surrounded the gorgeously draped litter, waiting, silently and timorous, the further pleasure of their mistress; and behind Dea Flavia her two Ethiopian slaves, stolidly holding the palm leaves to shield her head against the blazing sun which so mercilessly seared their own naked shoulders.
Beauty should at least have touched society; then, in a moment, it throws off a weight that lay upon it, it becomes conscious of itself, it puts on an elegance, learns a gait and a carriage of the head, and, in a moment, patet dea. Before I left I assured Clarisse of my hearty admiration.
They spoke, they cried, they babbled, they murmured in a mad dialogue of joy! How are we to paint thee, O joy! "My life!" "My heaven!" "My love!" "My whole happiness!" "Gwynplaine!" "Dea, I am drunk. Let me kiss your feet." "Is it you, then, for certain?" "I have so much to say to you now that I do not know where to begin." "One kiss!" "O my wife!" "Gwynplaine, do not tell me that I am beautiful.
The noise of strife and rebellion, though distant, still filled the air around, but here, in this room, there was infinite quietude and peace. Dea Flavia felt supremely happy. Love had come to her in its most exquisite plenitude; the man whom she honoured, loved her and she loved him.
Just about this time a noble named Publius Clodius Pulcher, who was a demagogue of the worst moral character, in the pursuance of his base intrigues, committed an act of sacrilege by entering the house of Cæsar, disguised as a woman, during the celebration of the mysteries of the Bona Dea, to which men were never admitted.
Then she heard a voice even the beloved voice answering: "O ven! ama! Eres alma, Soy corazon." "O come and love Thou art the soul, I am the heart." And at the same instant Dea felt under her hand the head of Gwynplaine. She uttered an indescribable cry. "Gwynplaine!" A light, as of a star, shone over her pale face, and she tottered. Gwynplaine received her in his arms. "Alive!" cried Ursus.
In their hell they had created heaven. Such was thy power, O Love! Dea heard Gwynplaine's laugh; Gwynplaine saw Dea's smile. Thus ideal felicity was found, the perfect joy of life was realized, the mysterious problem of happiness was solved; and by whom? By two outcasts. For Gwynplaine, Dea was splendour. For Dea, Gwynplaine was presence.
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