ds of that demon!"

And that Lygian who had killed Croton seemed to him at that moment some
superhuman being. While running, he thought that he might be some god
who had taken the form of a barbarian. At that moment he believed in all
the gods of the world, and in all myths, at which he jeered usually. It
flew through his head, too, that it might be the God of the Christians
who had killed Croton; and his hair stood on end again at the thought
that he was in conflict with such a power.

Only when he had run through a number of alleys, and saw some workmen
coming toward him from a distance, was he calmed somewhat. Breath failed
in his breast; so he sat on the threshold of a house and began to wipe,
with a corner of his mantle, his sweat-covered forehead.

"I am old, and need calm," said he.

The people coming toward him turned into some little side street, and
again the place round about was empty. The city was sleeping yet. In the
morning movement began earlier in the wealthier parts of the city,
where the slaves of rich houses were forced to rise before daylight; in
portions inhabited by a free population, supported at the cost of the
State, hence unoccupied, they woke rather late, especially in winter.
Chilo, after he had sat some time on the threshold, felt a piercing
cold; so he rose, and, convincing himself that he had not lost the purse
received from Vinicius, turned toward the river with a step now much
slower.

"I may see Croton's body somewhere," said he to himself. "O gods! that
Lygian, if he is a man, might make millions of sestertia in the course
of one year; for if he choked Croton, like a whelp, who can resist him?
They would give for his every appearance in the arena as much gold as he
himself weighs. He guards that maiden better than Cerberus does Hades.
But may Hades swallow him, for all that! I will have nothing to do with
him. He is too bony. But where shall I begin in this case? A dreadful
thing has happened. If he has broken the bones of such a man as Croton,
beyond a doubt the soul of Vinicius is puling above that cursed house
now, awaiting his burial. By Castor! but he is a patrician, a friend
of Caesar, a relative of Petronius, a man known in all Rome, a military
tribune. His death cannot pass without punishment. Suppose I were to go
to the pretorian camp, or the guards of the city, for instance?"

Here he stopped and began to think, but said after a while,--"Woe is me!
Who took him to that