proceed. She had lighted a small lamp which would
guide the Caesar and his escort on their way. From the door, a flight of
precipitous steps led down into the darkness. Caligula was the first to
descend and his soldiers followed him; the one who held the lamp keeping
close to the Caesar's person.

Dea Flavia stood at the door until the footsteps of the men ceased to
send their echo back to her along the vaulted passage. Then, with a sigh
of relief, she closed the door on them and hastily fled from the room.

Her one desire now was to shut out, as completely as possible from her
mental vision the picture of her shattered ideal, the degradation of
that majesty which she had honoured all her life. So imbued was she with
that sense of honour and of reverence for the Caesarship, that she would
not dwell in thought on that awful sight of the Caesar grovelling in
abject terror at her feet. She wished to forget it--to forget him--the
man who, in her eyes, was already no longer the Caesar, for the Caesar was
a god, and like unto a god in glory and in dignity--whilst Caligula, her
kinsman, had sunk lower than the beasts.

Almost involuntarily she had turned back toward the studio. A while ago
she had wished to look on the praefect of Rome as he lay in a drugged
sleep, desiring to assure herself that all was well with him; then the
advent of the Caesar had interrupted her. Over an hour had gone by since
then and the whole aspect of the world had changed.

The Caesar was a fugitive and a coward, and the people who had the upper
hand were prepared to acclaim the hero of their choice.

The atrium now was gloomy and deserted. The slaves--gathered together in
their remote quarters--shunned the vastness and the enforced silence of
the reception halls; they preferred to huddle together in close groups
in corners, distant from the noise of the street.

Dea Flavia stood quietly listening. Still from afar came the insistent
cries of "Death!" and of "Vengeance!" Still overhead that lurid light
and smoke-laden atmosphere. But now those same cries seemed almost
drowned by a sound more persistent if less ominous: the sound of heavy
pattering rain on leaden roofs and into the marble basin of the
impluvium, whilst the roll of Jove's thunders appeared to be more nigh.

It was obvious that the storm which had been threatening all the morning
from over the Campania, had burst over the great city at last. It was
Jove's turn now to make a noise