But Martialis had disappeared through the curtains of the doorway. The word Surrentum was electrical, and, with a bound, he was gone, ere his amazed subordinate could move a muscle. Double curtains closed the entrance to the supper‐room, the few feet of intervening space forming a kind of ante‐chamber. Martialis dashed aside the innermost drapery and halted for a brief second, whilst he cast a flashing glance around the brilliant chamber. Yes, there was Neæra standing in the midst, on exactly the same spot where her ill‐fated fosterfather had stood before, a target for each rude, pitiless gaze of master and slave alike. She was drawn to the full height of her tall, supple figure, and her noble face, as pale as death, was bent undauntedly on the opposing visage of Tiberius. The expression of the latter was seemingly cold and impassive. Plautia, reclining at his right hand, gazed with an exultant glance and flushed cheeks; the others were critical and amused. On either hand of the captive girl was Plautus and a comrade, with their fierce eyes riveted on Tiberius, oblivious of all save his slightest motion. Behind the Imperial couch stood the handsome steward, intently watchful of everything. The supper‐table, in the midst, was loaded with its gorgeous service of gold and silver plate, whilst the attendants around the apartment had stayed their stealthy steps, fearful of interrupting the scene with the slightest sound. ‘They said my father had need of me—was dying,’ Neæra was saying in a clear, firm voice, when her glance, in common with the rest, was drawn by a stir at the doorway. The gleam of a corslet filled her eyes, breaking violently through the cluster of slaves round the entrance, as the prow of a ship dashes aside the billows of the sea. With a tremulous cry she held forth her arms. ‘Lucius!’ ‘Neæra—I am here!’ He reached her side at a stride, and, thrusting Plautus rudely back, cast his left arm around her and lifted her away to a clearer space. Close on his heels rushed the terror‐stricken Pretorian on guard, and Plautus, on his part, made a savage gesture of retaliation. Both, however, had the discretion to hesitate before the fiery glance of the Centurion and a still more significant motion of his right hand to his belt. ‘Courage, my Neæra,’ murmured her lover; ‘I know all, and have followed to save thee from these pitiless wretches, whose foul touch is worse than death. Only one escape from dishonour is left to thee now, dear love.’ He drew his poniard from his belt and placed it in her hand. She took it, and held up her face to his with an ineffable smile. ‘They shall not part us now.’