From supper, at a late hour, she went back to her room triumphant. Exultation shone in her eyes, and, for a time at least, lulled the sticking pain in her heart. Copious floods of wine flashed in Caesar’s cup, whilst his gaze was riveted on the matchless beauty of his guest. The cool‐headed, temperate Prefect, whom the Emperor had purposely brought into unexpected contact with his guest, looked on and laughed in his sleeve. On Plautia, at times, he bestowed an ironical smile, the spirit of which she defined, and resented inwardly. Atticus, Flaccus, and Marinus, three devoted personal friends of the Emperor, drank their wine, gazed their fill at the superb woman, listened to her lively wit, and gave back what they could of their own, in an excited ecstasy and jauntiness of foolish middle‐age. The night waxed, and the faces of the waiting slaves grew weary. But the wine still splashed into the gold goblet of Caesar, and his eyes scarce moved from the girl before him. These only betrayed him to the watchful; for his slow, cautious tongue, scarcely looser with wine, said little. The time flew on. Draught followed draught still faster, until Plautia rose to go. The pallid face of Tiberius had become gradually suffused with a faint tint of the warm floods which were pouring through his veins. His kindling eyes had begun to sparkle and blaze like a basilisk’s. The swift‐witted damsel seized the moment, and, with the briefest delay, left the table and the room. The rich jewel which had set the ring was gone. The flame in the Emperor’s eyes lacked its fuel, and quickly sank like the chilling embers of fire. His gaze became a vacant stare, and then swiftly relapsed into the glassy stupidity of intoxication: but all in complete silence. The remaining six men, after a parting cup, took their leave of their Imperial host, who made no sign in response. One of the guests walked away from the palace, under the bright stars, with a hot brow, and tumult in his breast. The Prefect, his companion, suddenly startled the quiet night air with a loud laugh. ‘Is she not clever, my Titus? Is she not superb? Did she not play a pretty game? Ha! ha! ha! Is it not a droll world this of ours? An emperor besotted on what a poor centurion has spurned! Wouldst thou have turned a goddess adrift who had knelt to thee? O, mighty Centurion! O, poor Caesar! Was she ever so glorious as to‐night? But hark you—it was false fire. I caught the spurious tone—did you not, Afer? But she was incomparable—do you not hear, my friend?’ Afer ground his teeth, and muttered something unintelligibly between his lips. ‘She was, do you say? You are insufferably dull, my friend. You have drunk too much, or not enough. It is lucky our companionship is only to be short. Here is my way! _Vale!_ sleep off your sombre fit!’ Afer went on, but not to his bed. He burned with a fever which could not endure the cramping walls of his lodging.