an instant; she dragged it forth.  Then out on to the terrace.  Really only a moment had elapsed since she left it.  One of the slaves was lying dead, or stunned, prone on the turf.  Phaon was writhing and howling beside him, nursing a broken jaw.  The other assailants had sunk back in temporary repulse and were preparing for a second rush.  Drusus was still standing.  He half leaned upon the stone pedestal of an heroic-sized Athena, who seemed to be spreading her protecting aegis above him.  His garments were rent to the veriest shreds.  His features were hidden behind streaming blood, his arms and neck were bruised and bleeding; but clearly his adversaries could not yet congratulate themselves that the lion’s strength was too sapped to be no longer dreaded.

“Come, you,” was his hot challenge to Lucius Ahenobarbus, who stood, half delighted, half afraid, shivering and laughing spasmodically, as he surveyed the struggle from a safe distance.  “Come, you, and have your share in the villany!”

And again, for it was all the affair of the veriest moment, the slaves rushed once more on their indocile victim.  “Freedom to the man who pulls him down!” was the incentive of Ahenobarbus.

But again Drusus, who, to tell the truth, had to contend with only the flabby, soft-handed, unskilful underlings of Lucius, struck out so furiously that another of his attackers fell backward with a groan and a gasp.  All this Cornelia saw while, sword in hand, she flew toward the knot of writhing men.  She pushed aside the slaves by sheer force.  She asked no civilities, received none.

“Pull her away!” shouted Lucius, and started himself to accomplish his purpose.  A rude hand smote her in the face; she staggered, fell; but as she fell a hand snatched the sword out of her grasp.  She released her hold gladly, for did she not know that hand?  When she rose to her feet there were shrieks of fear and pain on every side.  The slaves were cringing in dread before him.  Drusus was standing under the Athena, with the keen steel in his hand—­its blade dyed crimson; and at his feet lay Ahenobarbus’s favourite valet—­the wretch literally disembowelled by one deadly stroke.

“Fly, fly!” she implored; “they will bring arms!  They will never let you escape.”

“I’ll pay you for letting him kill Croesus,” howled Lucius, facing himself resolutely toward his enemy.  “How can he fly when the house is full of servants, and his boat is away from the landing?  You give yourself trouble for no purpose, my lady!  Lentulus’s people will be here with swords in a moment!”

But as he spoke a blow of some unseen giant dashed him prostrate, and upon the terrace from below came Cappadox, foaming with anxious rage, his brow blacker than night, his brawny arms swinging a heavy paddle with which he clubbed the cowering slaves right and left.

“Have they killed him!  Have the gods spared him!” These two demands came bounding in a breath from the honest servant’s lips.  And when he saw Drusus, bleeding, but still standing, he rushed forward to fling his arms about his master’s neck.