EDGAR RICE BURROUGHS
Von Harben laughed. “Mallius Lepus, who invited me here, insists that I am a barbarian,” he said, “but even so I am the guest of Septimus Favonius, his uncle.”
The girl shrugged. “I am not surprised,” she said. “My father is notorious for the guests he honors.”
“You are the daughter of Favonius?” asked von Harben.
“Yes, I am Favonia,” replied the girl, “but you have not yet told me about yourself. I command you to do so,” she said, imperiously.
“I am Erich von Harben of Germania,” said the young man.
“Germania!” exclaimed the girl. “Caesar wrote of Germania, as did Sanguinarius. It seems very far away.”
“It never seemed so far as now,” said von Harben; “Yet the three thousand miles of distance seem nothing by comparison with the centuries of time that intervene.”
The girl puckered her brows. “I do not understand you,” she said.
“No,” said von Harben, “and I cannot blame you.”
“You are a chief, of course?” she asked.
He did not deny the insinuation, for he had been quick to see from the attitude of the three patricians he had met that the social standing of a barbarian in Castrum Mare might be easily open to question, unless his barbarism was somewhat mitigated by a title. Proud as he was of his nationality, von Harben realized that it was a far cry from the European barbarians of Caesar’s day to their cultured descendants of the twentieth century and that it would probably be impossible to convince these people of the changes that have taken place since their history was written; and, also, he was conscious of a very definite desire to appear well in the eyes of this lovely maiden of bygone age.
“Favonia!” exclaimed von Harben. He scarcely breathed the name.
The girl locked up at him questioningly. “Yes!” she said.
“It is such a lovely name,” he said. “I never heard it spoken before.”
“You like it?” she asked.
“Very much, indeed.”
The girl puckered her brows in thought. She had beautiful
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