Rapid thoughts sped through the mind of Martialis as he surveyed the scene. What if he were to assume the offensive before the arrival of his comrades? Would he thereby better his position? Had he been alone, his fleet foot by a quick dash would have easily carried him free from the palace to the boats. But such an act was impossible with Neæra. It was true he might fall upon the craven, naked flock before him, and turn the room into a shambles. But such a butchery would avail him nothing; and to leave the side of Neæra for an instant would be to endanger her. No, he would meet his fate honestly, and not like a reckless murderous desperado. Once more he appealed to Tiberius. ‘Will you not send for the Prefect?’ he said; ‘his presence might intercede with you, and gain your gracious clemency for his unfortunate Centurion and this blameless maiden. Force will avail nothing, but the sacrifice of some brave men—as for us, we shall never be parted alive, be assured.’ But Caesar answered nothing; neither did any motion or expression betoken that he paid the least attention to the words. His glance was fixed intently, as it seemed, on the wall, or rather the long curtains which draped the wall behind the Centurion for some distance on either hand. Martialis forebore to say more, and ere long the critical moment arrived. The rapid tread of many feet was heard through the half‐drawn curtains of the door, and some ten or fifteen Pretorians, fully armed, and flashing with their polished harness, filed into the room, headed by the bulky Centurion Macro. The legionaries came to a halt, with blank wonder on their faces, and their officer, with no less astonishment, turned his eyes on Caesar for his orders. Martialis silently stooped and kissed Neæra on the lips. Then he slowly drew his sword from his sheath, and gravely saluted his comrades. ‘He refuses to surrender himself,’ said Tiberius to Macro, without removing his eyes from Martialis; ‘I have sent for you to secure him—alive, if possible; if not, dead.’ The task was repugnant from every point of view, and the legionaries showed it by the want of alacrity and spirit in the preparations they made to carry out the mandate. But to hear was to obey, and Macro, who, perhaps, felt less scruple than the rank and file, in consequence of a jealousy of Martialis, desired the latter to deliver up his weapon. ‘Come and take it,’ said Martialis; ‘these are my only terms. Our fellowship is fated to end in a way we never dreamt of; blame me not, but those who have dragged my betrothed hither from her home—I will not give her up.’ The faces of the men darkened, and dissatisfied mutterings broke from their lips. The order to draw up in line and prepare for their work was obeyed sullenly and slowly. Martialis was popular, and his words and position inspired them with additional sympathy. ‘Do as ye are bid,’ cried Martialis, as he noted the signs of dissatisfaction; ‘nought else will avail.’