ich should be ours, I drove
the keen blade in deep--deep drove I the blade, kissing her lips. And
she did laugh--laugh like a happy child and press her lips to mine. I
drew the dagger dripping red from the heart of my Thracian love and
stuck it to my bosom bidding her strike it hard. But the stroke fell
short. Even as the first blood met the blade was I struck low by the
sword of Rome which lay open my face. Aye, seest thou? Seest thou the
face of thy slave? And when he beheld blood bubbling from my face and
pumping from my breast, did the Roman chieftain laugh.

"Aye, how Rome doth love blood! Rivers of blood! Seas of blood! With
the blood of my face dripping on to the blood of my breast I looked
into the face of him who had laughed at my blood, and I did
laugh--laugh in the face of Rome and shout with victorious shouting,
'My blood may'st thou have! Aye, from a thousand wounds may thou steal
it--shout over it--drink it, if thou wilt! But never shall the hand of
Rome pollute her whom I loved! Never shall the feverish lips of thy
foul lust stain her sweet breathing!' Again did the chieftain smite me
across the head, and darkness came. When I awoke blood was there from
a third wound, yea, most noble mistress, that wound which did rob me of
man's most sacred possession. Yet again did I laugh in the face of
Rome, laugh with the joy of a victor and praise the gods, for around
the neck of him who had smitten me would never twine the ivory arms of
her I loved. Neither would the hand that had made me a thing of wood,
caress the blue veined breast of her who was mine. For this I love the
scar! Sweet is the scar, most noble mistress, of thy eunuch's sore
scarred love! Sweet is the scar!"

During the recital of her slave's tragic story, Claudia had shown much
interest. "Is there more?" she asked, when he paused.

"Yea, that which doth delight the heart of Rome--the Triumph. When as
captives we first saw Rome, great was the rejoicing in the city whose
sword rules the world. With garlands were the buildings gay. The
streets were strewn with flowers, and the populace was robed in white.
The victor came in a golden chariot with its four white horses and its
stately lictors. Proud was he in purple robe and crown of laurel and
he smiled as the trumpet tones of the heralds rang out and the populace
shouted praise in thunderous tones. With the captives and the spoils
of war came I, chained, and the rabble did