“Kill me?” gasped Drusus, incredulously; “commit deliberate murder?”

“Yes,” moaned Cornelia; “he dares anything.  He is all fury and violence.  Escape!  Do not throw yourself away in vain!”

The lights flashed nearer; the slaves were shouting and blundering through the bushes.

“Two philippi to the man who strikes Drusus down!” bawled Lentulus.

It was no time for delay and affectionate leave-taking.  The young man threw his arms around Cornelia, kissed her once, twice, and then bounded into the thicket.  A moment later several of the servants came splashing over the little stream, and found Cornelia alone beside the great cypress, pale and trembling and sobbing.  Drusus caught one last sight of her, surrounded by the torches of the pursuers.  Then he struck off into the grove, and thanks to his perfect local knowledge easily avoided meeting Lentulus or his slaves.  Lentulus he would gladly have confronted alone.  What would have followed, the athletic young man could only surmise grimly; but he was unarmed, and for Cornelia’s sake he must take no risks.

Close to the confines of his own land he met the Mamerci, father and son, and several slaves and freedmen, all armed and anxious to know whether the din that had been raised over at the Lentulan villa betokened any danger to their young master.

Drusus satisfied them that he had suffered no injury.  The personal peril through which he had passed brought a reaction of excitement which raised his spirits, and he went to bed in a mood at least tolerably cheerful.  If he could not enjoy his love, he had at least something else to live for—­vengeance; and he told himself that he had a whole mature lifetime left in which to make Lentulus repent of his folly and tyrannical cruelty.  He awoke late the next morn in a calm frame of mind, and was able to receive with outward equanimity the news that early in the morning Lentulus had taken his sister-in-law and niece, and a large part of his household, back to Rome.  This was only to have been expected, and Drusus listened to the information without useless comment.

Chapter VI

Pompeius Magnus

If we had been painting an ideal heroine, gifted with all the virtues which Christian traditions of female perfection throw around such characters, Cornelia would have resigned herself quietly to the inevitable, and exhibited a seraphic serenity amid tribulation.  But she was only a grieved, embittered, disappointed, sorely wronged, Pagan maiden, who had received few enough lessons in forbearance and meekness.  And now that her natural sweetness of character had received so severe a shock, she vented too often the rage she felt against her uncle upon her helpless servants.  Her maid Cassandra—­who was the one that had told Lentulus of her mistress’s nocturnal meeting with Drusus—­soon felt the weight of Cornelia’s wrath.  The young lady, as