Julian.
The vault of heaven is like a sea of glittering light. Perhaps it is high noon. It is warm; the air quivers along the walls of the houses; the river, half-shrunken in its bed, ripples over the white flints.—Beautiful life! Beautiful earth!
Sallust.
Oh come, my lord, come! This stay in the catacombs is construed to your hurt.
Julian.
How is it construed?
Sallust.
Dare I tell you?
Julian.
You dare, and you must. How is it construed?
Sallust.
Many believe that it is remorse rather than sorrow that has driven you underground in this strange fashion.
Julian.
They think I killed her?
Sallust.
The mystery of the case may excuse them, if
Julian.
No one killed her, Sallust! She was too pure for this sinful world; therefore an angel from heaven descended every night into her secret chamber, and called upon her. You doubt it? Know you
