than to murder, and the slave gave himself up to them to be stripped, while his master, who was no doubt disguised, perhaps as a slave, contrived to slip out of their hands and reached the city gate safely.  Here he waited, as we might expect him to do, for his brave companion, and then succeeded in making his way into the city and to his house, where his wife concealed him between the roof and the ceiling of one of their bedrooms, until the storm should blow over.

But neither life nor property was safe until some pardon and restitution were obtained from one at least of the triumvirs.  When at last these were conceded by Octavian, he was himself absent in the campaign that ended with Philippi, and Lepidus was consul in charge of Rome.  To Lepidus Turia had to go, to beg the confirmation of Octavian’s grace, and this brutal man received her with insult and injury.  She fell at his feet, as her husband describes with bitter indignation, but instead of being raised and congratulated, she was hustled, beaten like a slave, and driven from his presence.  But her perseverance had its ultimate reward.  The clemency of Octavian prevailed on his return to Italy, and this treatment of a lad; was among the many crimes that called for the eventual degradation of Lepidus.

This was the last of their perilous escapes.  A long period of happy married life awaited them, more particularly after the battle of Actium, when “peace and the republic were restored.”  One thing only was wanting to complete their perfect felicity—­they had no children.  It was this that caused Turia to make a proposal to her husband which, coming from a truly unselfish woman, and seen in the light of Roman ideas of married life, is far from unnatural; but to us it must seem astonishing, and it filled Lucretius with horror.  She urged that he should divorce her, and take another wife in the hope of a son and heir.  If there is nothing very surprising in this from a Roman point of view, it is indeed to us both surprising and touching that she should have supported her request by a promise that she would be as much a mother to the expected children as their own mother, and would still be to Lucretius a sister, having nothing apart from him, nothing secret, and taking away with her no part of their inheritance.

To us, reading this proposal in cold blood just nineteen hundred years after it was made, it may seem foolishly impracticable; to her, whose whole life was spent in unselfish devotion to her husband’s interests, whose warm love for him was always mingled with discretion, it was simply an act of pietas—­of wifely duty.  Yet he could not for a moment think so himself:  his indignation at the bare idea of it lives for ever on the marble in glowing words.  “I must confess,” he says, “that the anger so burnt within me that my senses almost deserted me:  that you should ever have thought it possible that we could be separated but by death, was most horrible to me.  What was the need of children compared with my loyalty to you:  why should I exchange certain happiness for an uncertain future?  But I say no more of this:  you remained with me, for I could not yield without disgrace to myself and unhappiness to both of us.  The one sorrow that was in store for me was that I was destined to survive you.”