Lentulus, he knew perfectly well, was really above law.  No jury would ever convict the leader of the Senate party.  Drusus could never contract lawful marriage with Cornelia, so long as her guardian withheld consent.  And for one moment he regretted of his determination, of his defiance.  Then came reaction.  Drusus called up all his innate pride, all the strength of his nobler inspirations.

“I have set my face toward that which is honourable and right,” cried Drusus to his own soul; “I will not doubt.  Whether there be gods, I cannot tell.  But this I know, the wise and good have counted naught dear but virtues; and toward this end I will strive.”

And by a strong effort at self-command, he forced himself to arise from the bench and walk back to his own estate, and soon he was pouring the whole story into the sympathetic ears of Mamercus, Pausanias, and other worthy retainers.

The scene that had taken place at the villa of the Lentuli, soon was reported through all the adjacent farms; for several slaves had been the mute witnesses of the angry colloquy, and had not been slow to publish the report.  The familia of Drusus was in a tumult of indignation.  All the brawny Germans and Africans whom the young master had released from the slave-prison, and had since treated with kindness, listened with no unfavourable ear to the proposal which Titus Mamercus—­more valorous than discreet—­was laying before them:  to arm and attack Lentulus in his own villa, and so avenge their lord in a summary fashion.

But the elder Mamercus dashed the martial ambitions of his son.

“Fool,” cried the veteran, emphatically, when the project came to his ears, “do you wish to undo yourself and Quintus too?  No power short of Jove could protect you and him, if aught were to befall Lentulus, in the way you propose.”

“But what can we do, father?” replied Titus, sorry to see his scheme for vengeance blocked; “shall that despicable tyrant defy law and justice, and refuse to give Mistress Cornelia to Quintus?”

“Silence your folly!” thundered the other, who was himself quite nonplussed over the situation, and felt Titus’s bold chatter would goad him into something desperate.

The truth was, neither Pausanias nor any other of Quintus’s friends could see any means of coercing the consul-elect into receding from his position.  He was practically above law, and could not with safety be attacked in any way.  Pausanias could only counsel moderation and patience; perhaps some fortunate chance would alter matters.  Drusus spent the evening in a pathetically forced attempt to read his Callimachus.  He was weary physically, and intended to retire early.  AEmilia, who felt sorry enough for the plight of her rather distant cousin, had tried to console him and divert him with guitar[84] music, and had called in an itinerant piper,[85] but these well-meant efforts at amusement had been dreary failures.  Drusus had just bidden his body-servants undress him, when he was informed that Agias had come from the Lentulan villa, and wished to see him.