Oh!" she went on with passion, "cannot you forgive what seem to be my sins when you remember that they were wrought for love of you ?" "Augusta," I said, "I have small ambition; I am not minded to be an emperor.

But hearken.

Put aside this thought of marriage with one so far beneath you, and let me marry her whom I have chosen, and who has chosen me.

Then once more I'll take command of the Northmen and defend you and your cause to the last drop of my blood." Her face hardened.
"It may not be," she said, "not only for those reasons I have told you, but for another which I grieve to have to tell.

Heliodore, daughter of Magas the Egyptian, is dead.' "Dead!" I gasped.