It was the first time that the two enemies had met face to face since Drusus had declined the invitation to Marcus Laeca’s supper.  Be it said to Lucius’s credit that he sensed the situation with only the minimum of confusion, and instantly realized all of Cornelia’s worst fears.  Drusus had drawn back from the steps to the lower terrace, and stood with stern brow and knotted fist, trapped by a blunder that could hardly have been guarded against, no submissive victim to what fate had in store.  Cornelia, for once quite distraught with terror, cowered on a bench, unable to scream through sheer fright.

“Salve! amice,” was the satirical salutation of Ahenobarbus.  “How excellently well met. Heus! Phaon, bring your boatmen, quick!  Not an instant to lose!”

“Pity! mercy!” gasped Cornelia, “I will do anything for you, but spare him;” and she made as if to fall on her knees before Ahenobarbus.

“Girl!” Drusus had never spoken in that way to her before; his tones were cold as ice.  “Go into the house!  Your place is not here.  If Lucius Ahenobarbus intends to murder me—­”

The boatmen and two or three other slaves that were always at Ahenobarbus’s heels were crowding up on to the terrace ready to do their master’s bidding.

“Throw me that fellow over the balcony,” ordered Lucius, his sense of triumph and opportunity mastering every fear that Flaccus would execute his threat of prosecution.  “See that he does not float!”

Cornelia found her voice.  She screamed, screamed shrilly, and ran into the house.  Already the familia was alarmed.  Two or three freedmen of Lentulus were rushing toward the terrace.  They were murdering Quintus!  He was resisting, resisting with all the powers of a wild animal driven to its last lair.  Outside, on the terrace, where but an instant before she and her lover were cooing in delicious ecstasy, there were oaths, blows, and the sharp pants and howls of mortal struggle.  And she could do nothing—­nothing!  And it was through his love for her that Drusus was to go down to his untimely grave!  The seconds of struggle and anguish moved on leaden feet.  Every breath was agony, every sound maddening.  And she could do nothing—­nothing.  Still they were fighting.  Phaon—­she knew his voice—­was crying out as if in grievous pain.  And now the voice of Lucius Ahenobarbus sounded again:  “One thousand denarii if you fling him into the sea!” and she could do nothing—­nothing!  She tore down the purple tapestries around her bed, and dashed from its tripod a costly bowl of opal Alexandrian glass—­all in the mere rage of impotence.  And still they were fighting.  What was that ornament hanging on the wall, half hid behind the torn tapestry?  A scabbard—­a sword, some relic of ancient wars!  And all the combatants were unarmed!  The antique weapon was held by stout thongs to the wall; she plucked it from its fastenings with the strength of a Titaness.  The rusty blade resisted