who do him
favors. Bultius Livius may see that to protect us is his safest course,
as well as best for Rome."

He had more to say, but Marcia's scorn interrupted him. Galen chuckled.

"Rome! He cares only for Bultius Livius. It is now or never,
Pertinax!"

Marcia's intense emotion made her appear icily indifferent, but she did
not deceive Galen, although Pertinax welcomed her calmness as excusing
unenthusiasm in herself.

"Marcia is right," said Galen. "It is now or never. Marcia ought to
know Commodus!"

"Know him?" she exploded. "I can tell you step by step what he will do!
He will come out of the bath and eat a light meal, but he will drink
nothing, for fear of poison. Presently he will be thirsty and lonely,
and will send for me; and whatever he feels, he will pretend he loves
me. When the raging fear is on him he will never drink from any one but
me. He will take a cup of wine from my hands, making me taste it first.
Then he will go alone into his own room, where only that child
Telamonion will dare to follow. Everything depends then on the child.
If the child should happen to amuse him he will turn sentimental and I
will dare to go in and talk to him. If not--"

Galen interrupted.

"Madness," he said, "resembles many other maladies, there being symptoms
frequently for many years before the slow fire bursts into a blaze.
Some die before the outbreak, being burned up by the generating process,
which is like a slow fire. But if they survive until the explosion, it
is more violent the longer it has been delayed. And in the case of
Commodus that means that other men will die. And women," he added,
looking straight at Marcia.

"If he even pretends he loves me--I am a woman," said Marcia. "I love
him in spite of his frenzies. If I only had myself to think of--"

"Think then!" Galen interrupted. "If you can't think for yourself, do
you expect to benefit the world by thinking?"

Marcia buried her face in her hands and lay face downward on the couch.
She was trembling in a struggle for self-mastery. Pertinax chewed at his
finger-nails, which were the everlasting subject of his proud wife's
indignation; he never kept his fine hands properly; the peasant in him
thought such refinements effeminate, unsoldierly. Cornificia, who could
have made him submit even to a manicure, understood him too well to
insist.

"Galen!" said Marcia, sitting up suddenly.

The old man blinked. He recognized d