Demetrius puffed hard through his nostrils.

“Mu! mu! This is bad business.  If there were time I could have twenty as stout men as ever swung sword up from the yacht and on guard to die for any relative or friend of Sextus Drusus.  But there’s not a moment to lose.  Have you any arms?”

Agias dragged two short swords out of a chest.  Demetrius was already throwing on his cloak.

“Those are poor, light weapons,” commented the pirate.  “I want my heavy cutlass.  But take what the gods send;” and he girded one about him.  “At least, they will cut a throat.  Do you know how to wield them?”

“After a fashion,” replied Agias, modestly, making haste to clasp his paenula.

Leaving Erigone to be cared for by the slaves and sent home the next morning, the two Greeks hastened from the house.  Agias could hardly keep pace with his cousin’s tremendous stride.  Demetrius was like a war-horse, which snuffs the battle from afar and tugs at the rein to join in the fray.  They plunged through the dark streets.  Once a man sprang out from a doorway before them with a cudgel.  He may have been a footpad; but Demetrius, without pausing in his haste, smote the fellow between the eyes with a terrible fist, and the wretched creature dropped without a groan.  Demetrius seemed guided to the Forum and Via Sacra as if by an inborn instinct.  Agias almost ran at his heels.

“How many may this Dumnorix have with him?” shouted the pirate over his shoulder.

“Perhaps ten, perhaps twenty!” gasped Agias.

“A very pretty number!  Some little credit to throttle them,” was his answer; and Demetrius plunged on.

The night was cloudy, there was no moonlight.  The cold, chill wind swept down the Tiber valley, and howled mournfully among the tall, silent basilicas and temples of the Forum.  The feet of the two Greeks echoed and reëchoed as they crossed the pavement of the enclosure.  None addressed them, none met them.  It was as if they walked in a city of the dead.  In the darkness, like weird phantoms, rose the tall columns and pediments of the deserted buildings.  From nowhere twinkled the ray of lamp.  Dim against the sky-line the outlines of the Capitoline and its shrines were now and then visible, when the night seemed for an instant to grow less dark.

They were close to the Atrium Vestae.  All was quiet.  No light within, no sound but that of the wind and their own breathing without.

“We are not too late,” whispered Agias.

The two groped their way in among the pillars of the portico of the Regia,[161] and crouched down under cover of the masonry, half sheltered from the chilly blasts.  They could from their post command a tolerably good view of one side of the Atrium Vestae.  Still the darkness was very great, and they dared not divide their force by one of them standing watch on the other side.  The moments passed.  It was extremely cold.  Agias shivered and wound himself in his mantle.  The wine was making him drowsy, and he felt himself sinking into semiconsciousness, when a touch on his arm aroused him.