He nodded his head in confirmation, and then sank exhausted on his knees beside Apollinaris’s couch and managed with great difficulty to stammer out:  “I am searching for Philip.  He went into the town-ill-out of his senses.  Did he not come to you?”

“No,” answered Berenike.  “But what is this fresh blood?  Has the slaughter begun?”

The wounded man nodded.  Then he continued, with a groan:  “In front of the house of your neighbor Milon—­the back of my head—­I fled—­a lance—­”

His voice failed him, and Berenike cried to the tribune:  “Support him, Nemesianus!  Look after him and tend him.  He is the brother of the maiden—­you know—­If I know you, you will do all in your power for him, and keep him hidden here till all danger is over.”

“We will defend him with our lives!” cried Apollinaris, giving his hand to the lady.

But he withdrew it quickly, for from the impluvium arose the rattle of arms, and loud, confused noise.

Berenike threw up her head and lifted her hands as if in prayer.  Her bosom heaved with her deep breath, the delicate nostrils quivered, and the great eyes flashed with wrathful light.  For a moment she stood thus silent, then let her arms fall, and cried to the tribunes: 

“My curse be upon you if you forget what you owe to yourselves, to the Roman Empire, and to your dying friend.  My blessing, if you hold fast to what you have promised.”

She pressed their hands, and, turning to do the same to the artist, found that he had lost consciousness.  Johanna and Nemesianus had removed his hat and caracalla, to attend to his wound.

A strange smile passed over the matron’s stern features.  Snatching the Gallic mantle from the Christian’s hand, she threw it over her own shoulders, exclaiming: 

“How the ruffian will wonder when, instead of the living woman, they bring him a corpse wrapped in his barbarian’s mantle!”

She pressed the hat upon her head, and from a corner of the room where the brothers’ weapons stood, selected a hunting-spear.  She asked if this weapon might be recognized as belonging to them, and, on their answering in the negative, said: 

“My thanks, then, for this last gift!”

At the last moment she turned to the waiting-woman: 

“Your brother will help you to burn Korinna’s picture.  No shameless gaze shall dishonor it again.”  She tore her hand from that of the Christian, who, with hot tears, tried to hold her back; then, carrying her head proudly erect, she left them.

The brothers gazed shudderingly after her.  “And to know,” cried Nemesianus, striking his forehead, “that our own comrades will slay her!  Never were the swords of Rome so disgraced!”

“He shall pay for it!” replied the wounded man, gnashing his teeth.

“Brother, we must avenge her!”

“Yes—­her, and—­may the gods hear me!—­you too, Apollinaris,” swore the other, lifting his hand as for an oath.