“’Shame upon men and soldiers who let themselves be hounded on like dogs to murder and dishonor!’ Rufus raised his sword to make an end of her, but I caught his arm and knelt beside her, begging her to let me see to her wound.  With that she seized the lance in her breast with both hands, and with her last breath murmured, ’He desired to see the living woman—­ bring him my body, and my curse with it!  Then with a last supreme effort she buried the spear still deeper in her bosom; but it was not necessary.

“I gazed petrified at the high-bred, wrathful face, still beautiful in death, and the mysterious, wide-open eyes that must have flashed so proudly in life.  It was enough to drive a man mad.  Even after I had closed her eyes and spread the mantle over her—­”

“What has been done with the body?” asked Apollinaris.

“I caused it to be carried into the house and the door of the death-chamber carefully locked.  But when I returned to the men.  I had to prevent them from tearing Rufus to pieces for having lost them the large reward which Caesar had promised for the living prisoner.”

“And you,” cried Apollinaris, excitedly, “had to look on while our men, honest soldiers, plundered this house—­which entertained many of us so hospitably—­as if they had been a band of robbers!  I saw them dragging out things which were used in our service only yesterday.”

“The emperor—­his permission!” sighed Flavius.  “You know how it is.  The lowest instincts of every nature come out at such a time as this, and the sun shines upon it all.  Many a poor wretch of yesterday will go to bed a wealthy man to-day.  But, for all that, I believe much was hidden from them.  In the room of the mistress of the house whence I have just come, a fire was still blazing in which a variety of objects had been burned.  The flames had destroyed a picture—­a small painted fragment betrayed the fact.  They perhaps possessed masterpieces of Apelles or Zeuxis.  This woman’s hatred would lead her to destroy them rather than let them fall into the hands of her imperial enemy; and who can blame her?”

“It was her daughter’s portrait,” said Nemesianus, unguardedly.

The legate turned upon him in surprise.  “Then she confided in you?” he asked.

“Yes,” returned the tribune, “and we are proud to have been so honored by her.  Before she went to her death she took leave of us.  We let her go; for we at least could not bring ourselves to lay hands upon a noble lady.”

The officer looked sternly at him and exclaimed, angrily: 

“Do you suppose, young upstart, that it was less painful to me and many another among us?  Cursed be this day, that has soiled our weapons with the blood of women and slaves, and may every drachma which I take from the plunder here bring ill-luck with it!  Call the accident that has kept you out of this despicable work a stroke of good fortune, but beware how you look down upon those whose oath forces them to crush out every human feeling from their hearts!  The soldier who takes part with his commander’s enemy—­”