Here was an aviary, constructed of
fine lattice work in wood, over-trailed with creeping plants, large
enough to allow of Heliodora's entering and walking about among the
multitude of birds imprisoned. At this amusement Marcian found her.
Upon her head perched a little songster; on her shoulder nestled a
dove; two fledglings in the palm of her hand opened their beaks for
food. Since her last visit a bird had died, and Heliodora's eyes
were still moist from the tears she had shed over it.
'You do not love birds,' she said, after gazing fixedly at Marcian a
moment through the trellis.
'I never thought,' was the reply, 'whether I loved them or not.'
'I had rather give my love to them than to any of mankind. They
repay it better.'
She came forth, carefully closed the wicket behind her, and began to
pace in the gallery as though she were alone. Presently she stood to
gaze over the city spread before her, and her eyes rested upon the
one vast building--so it seemed--which covered the Palatine
Hill.
'Marcian!'
He drew near. Without looking at him, her eyes still on the
distance, she said in an unimpassioned voice:
'Did you lie to me, or were you yourself deceived?'
'Lady, I know not of what you speak.
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