and the Pharos island.  At the head of the street the flames were pressing in upon a stately mansion around which the raging mob was packed thickly.  On the roof of the threatened house figures could be seen in the lurid light, running to and fro, flinging down bricks and stones, and trying to beat back the fire.  It was the house of Cleomenes.  Insensibly the veteran who had been driving reined in the horses, who themselves drew back, loath to plunge into the living barriers ahead.  But Drusus was past fear or prudence; with his own hands he sent the lash stinging over all the four, and the team, that had won more than a single trophy in the games, shot forward.  The chariot struck the multitude and went, not through it, but over it.  The on-rush was too rapid, too unexpected, for resistance.  To right and left, as the water gives way before the bows of an on-rushing ship, the crowd surged back, the instinct of panic reigning in every breast.  Thick and fast, as quickly as he might set shaft to string, flew Drusus’s arrows—­not a shaft that failed a mark, as it cut into the living masses.  The chariot reeled again and again, as this wheel or that passed over something animate and struggling.  The horses caught the fire of conflict; they raced, they ran—­and the others sped after them.  The mob left off howling:  it screamed with a single voice of mortal dread.  And before Drusus or any one else realized, the deed was done, the long lane was cleared, and the drivers were drawing rein before the house of Cleomenes.

The heavily barred carriage-way was thrown open, the valiant merchant and his faithful employees and slaves greeted their rescuers as the little cavalcade drove in.  There was not a moment to lose.  Cleomenes and his household might indeed have long made good the house against the mere attacks of the mob; but the rioters had set the torch to some adjacent buildings, and all efforts to beat back the flames were proving futile.  There was no time to condole with the merchant over the loss of his house.  The mob had surged again into the streets and was pressing back, this time more or less prepared to resist the Romans.  The colonnades and the house roofs were swarming, the din was indescribable, and the crackling and roar of the advancing flames grew ever louder.

The only alternative was a return to the palace.  Cleomenes’s employees and slaves were to scatter into the crowd, where they would easily escape notice; he himself, with his daughters, Artemisia, and the Roman ladies, must go in the chariots to the palace.  Cornelia came down from her chamber, her face more flushed with excitement than alarm.  Troubles enough she had had, but never before personal danger; and she could not easily grasp the peril.

“Are you afraid, carissima,” said Drusus, lifting her into his chariot, “to ride back with me to the palace, through that wolf pack?”

“With you?” she said, admiring the ease with which he sprang about in full armour; “I would laugh at Medusa or the Hydra of Lerna with you beside me.”