whilst the anger of the populace was at its
height and dense masses had surrounded his palace to which he had been
known to flee, he had been spirited away out of the city. His
proclamation had come from Etruria, showing that he was already far from
his city and on his way to join his legions.

How did he succeed in making a way for himself through the dense masses
that had thronged the streets for nigh on forty-eight hours, since
first the tumult broke out in the Circus when the praefect of Rome was
stabbed?

Had Jupiter sent down his thunders yesterday, his lowering clouds and
heavy showers of rain, only in order to aid the Caesar in his progress?
What hand had guided him down the declivities of the Palatine? What arm
shielded him from the anger of the people?

Dea Flavia had heard the news even as soon as the first hour of the day
had been called. Yesterday, bruised in mind and heart and body, she had
lain for close on an hour in a dreamless, semi-conscious state. It was
only when she awoke from that that the knowledge of her misery returned
to her in full.

She had found love, happiness, pride, all that makes life exquisite and
fair, only to lose all these treasures even before she had had time to
grasp them.

Love had been called to life by the look, the touch of one man,
happiness had come when she saw the love-light in his eyes, born in
response to hers: pride came with all the rich gifts which she could
lavish upon him. Now everything was gone, he had taken everything from
her, even as he gave it; and he took everything in order to offer it as
a sacrifice to his God.

Now her heart was numbed and her brain tried in vain to conjure up the
images of yesterday: the happy moments when she had lain against the
noblest heart in Rome. But the only vision that her dulled senses could
perceive was that of dying Menecreta speaking that awful curse, or of
herself--Dea Flavia--gazing with eyes of anger and of pride into vacancy
wherein her imagination had traced a glowing cross, and uttering words
of defiance that seemed so futile, so sacrilegious now.

The storm then had obscured the sky, drove the rain in heavy patter
overhead, the air was dismal and dark: now a brilliant sunshine flooded
the imperial city with its radiance, the wet marble glistened in the
dawn and a roseate hue tipped the seven hills of Rome with glory. But in
Dea Flavia's heart there was sorrow darker than the blackest night,
sleep forsook he