with his left and striking with his right.  And how he struck!  The whole agile, supple nature of the Greek entered into every fence.  He struck and foiled with his entire body.  Now a bound to one side; now a dart at an opponent’s head; fighting with feet, head, frame, and not with hands only.  And Agias—­he fought too, and knew not how he fought!  When a blow was aimed at him, Demetrius always parried it before he could raise his sword; if he struck, Demetrius had felled the man first; but he never let go of the white dress, nor quitted the side of the lady.  And presently, he did not know after how long—­for hours make minutes, and minutes hours, in such a melee—­there was a moment’s silence, and he saw Publius Gabinius sinking down upon the pavement, the blood streaming over his cloak; and the brigands, such as were left of them, scurrying out of the atrium cowed and panic-struck at the fall of their leader.  Then, as he threw his arms about Fabia, and tried to raise her to her feet, he saw the giant Dumnorix, with his flail-like sword, rushing back to the rescue.

Four brigands lay dead in the atrium and none of the others dared look the redoubtable Greek swordsman in the eyes; but Dumnorix came on—­the incarnation of brute fury.  Then again Demetrius fought,—­fought as the angler fights the fish that he doubts not to land, yet only after due play; and the Gaul, like some awkward Polyphemus, rushed upon him, flinging at him barbarous curses in his own tongue, and snorting and raging like a bull.  Thrice the Greek sprang back before the monster; thrice the giant swung his mighty sword to cleave his foeman down, and cut the empty air; but at the fourth onset the Hellene smote the ex-lanista once across the neck, and the great eyes rolled, and the panting stopped, and the mighty Gaul lay silent in a spreading pool of blood.

Already there were shouts and cries in the Forum.  Torches were dancing hither and thither.  The slave-maids of the Vestals ran down the Via Sacra shrieking and calling for aid.  Out from the dark tenements rushed the people.  The thieves ran from their lairs; the late drinkers sprang from their wine.  And when the wretched remnants of Dumnorix’s band of ex-gladiators and brigands strove to flee from the holy house they had polluted, a hundred hands were put forth against each one, and they were torn to pieces by the frenzied mob.  Into the Atrium Vestae swarmed the people, howling, shouting, praising the goddess, fighting one another—­every man imagining his neighbour a cutthroat and abductor.

Agias stood bearing up Fabia in his arms; she was pale as the driven snow.  Her lips moved, but no sound passed from them.  Fonteia, the old Maxima, with her white hair tumbling over her shoulders, was still huddled in one corner, groaning and moaning in a paroxysm of unreasoning terror, without dignity or self-control.  A frightened maid had touched the torch to the tall candelabra, and the room blazed