The centurion had thrown in a deprecatory word or two, but Berenike continued as if she had not heard him, till at last Martialis cried: 

“You ask too much of me, lady.  Caesar is hateful to me, but I am no longer one of the praetorians, and am banished the country.  How is it possible that I should approach him?  How dare I, a common man—­”

The lady came closer to him, and whispered: 

“You will perform this deed to which I have appointed you in the name of all the just.  We demand nothing from you but your sword.  Greater men than you—­the two Aurelians—­will guide it.  At their word of command you will do the deed.  When they give you the signal, brave Martialis, remember the unfortunate woman in Alexandria whose death you swore to revenge.  As soon as the tribunes—­”

But the centurion was suddenly transformed.  “If the tribunes command it,” he interrupted with decision, his dull eye flashing—­“if they demand it of me, I do it willingly.  Tell them Martialis’s sword is ever at their service.  It has made short work of stronger men than that vicious stripling.”

Berenike gave the soldier her hand, thanked him hurriedly, and begged him, as he could pass unharmed through the city, to hasten to her husband’s counting-house by the water-side, to warn him and carry him her last greetings.

With tears in his eyes Martialis did as she desired.  When he had gone, the steward began to implore his mistress to conceal herself, and not cast away God’s gift of life so sinfully; but she turned from him resolutely though kindly, and repaired once more to the brothers’ room.

One glance at them disclosed to her that they had come to no definite conclusion; but their hesitation vanished as soon as they heard that the centurion was ready to draw his sword upon the emperor when they should give the signal; and Berenike breathed a sigh of relief at this resolution, and clasped their hands in gratitude.

They, too, implored her to conceal herself, but she merely answered: 

“May your youth grow into happy old age!  Life can offer me nothing more, since my child was taken from me—­But time presses—­I welcome the murderers, now that I know that revenge will not sleep.”

“And your husband?” interposed Nemesianus.

She answered with a bitter smile:  “He?  He has the gift of being easily consoled.—­But what was that?”

Loud voices were audible outside the sick-room.  Nemesianus stationed himself in front of the lady, sword in hand.  This protection, however, proved unnecessary, for, instead of the praetorians, Johanna entered the room, supporting on her arm the half-sinking form of a young man in whom no one would have recognized the once beautifully curled and carefully dressed Alexander.  A long caracalla covered his tall form; Dido the slave had cut off his hair, and he himself had disguised his features with streaks of paint.  A large, broad-brimmed hat had slipped to the back of his head like a drunken man’s, and covered a wound from which the red blood flowed down upon his neck.  His whole aspect breathed pain and horror, and Berenike, who took him for a hired cut-throat sent by Caracalla, retreated hastily from him till Johanna revealed his name.