“You are unarmed, Publius, and they have cords and daggers.”

“Then open the door, and stay here with me till day dawns.  It is not noble, it is wicked to cast away your life.  Open the door at once, I entreat you, I command you!”

At any other time the words would not have failed of their effect on Klea’s reasonable nature, but the fearful storm of feeling which had broken over her during the last few hours had borne away in its whirl all her composure and self-command.  The one idea, the one resolution, the one desire, which wholly possessed her was to close the life that had been so full of self-sacrifice by the greatest sacrifice of all—­that of life itself, and not only in order to secure Irene’s happiness and to save the Roman, but because it pleased her—­her father’s daughter—­to make a noble end; because she, the maiden, would fain show Publius what a woman might be capable of who loved him above all others; because, at this moment, death did not seem a misfortune; and her mind, overwrought by hours of terrific tension, could not free itself from the fixed idea that she would and must sacrifice herself.

She no longer thought these things—­she was possessed by them; they had the mastery, and as a madman feels forced to repeat the same words again and again to himself, so no prayer, no argument at this moment would have prevailed to divert her from her purpose of giving up her young life for Publius and Irene.  She contemplated this resolve with affection and pride as justifying her in looking up to herself as to some nobler creature.  She turned a deaf ear to the Roman’s entreaty, and said in a tone of which the softness surprised him: 

“Be silent Publius, and hear me further.  You too are noble, and certainly you owe me some gratitude for having saved your life.”

“I owe you much, and I will pay it,” cried Publius, “as long as there is breath in this body—­but open the door, I beseech you, I implore you—­”

“Hear me to the end, time presses; hear me out, Publius.  My sister Irene went away with you.  I need say nothing about her beauty, but how bright, how sweet her nature is you do not know, you cannot know, but you will find out.  She, you must be told, is as poor as I am, but the child of freeborn and noble parents.  Now swear to me, swear—­no, do not interrupt me—­swear by the head of your father that you will never, abandon her, that you will never behave to her otherwise than as if she were the daughter of your dearest friend or of your own brother.”

“I swear it and I will keep my oath—­by the life of the man whose head is more sacred to me than the names of all the gods.  But now I beseech you, I command you open this door, Klea—­that I may not lose you—­that I may tell you that my whole heart is yours, and yours alone—­that I love you, love you unboundedly.”