"A fine triumph!" said the jurist angrily. "When the news reached Ravenna, the mob accused the Queen; they stormed the palace--but Amalaswintha had escaped." "Whither?" asked Cethegus, starting up. "Whither! Upon a Grecian ship--to Byzantium." Cethegus frowned and silently set down his cup. "But the worst is that the Goths mean to dethrone her, and choose a King." "A King?" said Cethegus. "Well, I will call the Senate together. The Romans, too, shall choose." "Whom? what shall we choose?" asked Scævola. But Cethegus was not obliged to answer. Before he could speak Lucius shouted: "A Dictator! Away, away to the Senate!" "To the Senate!" repeated Cethegus majestically. "Syphax, my mantle!" "Here, master, and the sword as well," whispered the Moor. "I always bring it with me, in case of need." And host and guests, staggering, followed Cethegus, who, the only completely sober man amongst them, was the first out of the house and into the street. CHAPTER XII. In one of the small rooms of the Emperor's palace in Byzantium, a short time after the Feast of the Floralia, a little man of insignificant appearance was pacing to and fro, lost in anxious thought. The room was quiet and lonely. Although outside it was broad daylight, the bay-window, which looked into the court of the extensive edifice, was thickly hung with heavy curtains of gold-brocade. Equally costly stuffs covered the mosaic floor, so that no noise accompanied the footsteps of the solitary inmate. A softened light filled the room. Relieved against the golden background of the walls, stood a row of small white busts of the Christian Emperors since Constantine. Exactly over a writing divan, hung a large cross of massive gold. Whenever the little man passed this, he bent before it; for in the middle of the gold, and covered with glass, a splinter of wood was enclosed, said to be a piece of the true Cross. At last he stopped before a map, which, representing the _orbis Romanus_, and traced upon a parchment with a purple border, covered one of the walls. After a long and searching look, he sighed and covered his eyes with his hands. They were not beautiful, nor was his face noble; but his features were exceedingly suggestive both of good and evil. Mistrust, cunning and vigilance lay in the restless glance of his deep-set eyes; deep wrinkles, more the result of care than of age, furrowed his projecting forehead and hollow cheeks. "Who can foresee the result?" he exclaimed, sighing again, and rubbing his long and bony hands. "I am unceasingly impelled to do it. A spirit has entered my bosom, and it warns me repeatedly. But is it an angel of the Lord or a demon? Who can interpret my dream? Forgive, Thou Triune God, forgive Thy most zealous servant! Thou hast cursed him who interprets dreams. And yet Joseph interpreted the dreams of King Pharaoh, and Jacob saw the heavens open; and their dreams were from Thee. Shall I, dare I venture?"