‘Martialis, you knew his intention before this night,’ said she, disregarding his pleading tone as she would the whining of a dog. ‘No, before Heaven—or maybe we had never seen this bitter night.’ ‘’Tis strange, and you two secretless friends, as I have heard you say.’ ‘This, at least, was dark to me, as to every one else, until he drank from yon fatal cup and fell back where he lies.’ Plautia took up the cup from the table where Charicles had placed it, and, with a natural curiosity, smelled at it, as he had done. ‘Take care!’ ejaculated Martialis, as the golden rim seemed to graze her ripe lips. ‘There is yet sufficient left to harm more than one—so the physician has said—beware lest a drop smear thy lip.’ ‘Tush, Martialis!—I am not so tired of life,’ she replied contemptuously, setting down the goblet; ‘who comes?’ ‘Festus, the lawyer, or thy uncle, Sabellus.’ ‘Festus?’ He pointed to the box, and, at the same time, an old man entered, wrinkled, grave, and thin. He made a profound obeisance, and then looked inquiringly from one to the other. ‘Martialis summoned thee, he hath need of thee, Festus,’ exclaimed Plautia haughtily; and, passing to the door, she summoned the domestics. ‘It is true I sent for thee,’ said Martialis briefly. ‘This is a woeful sight,’ said the lawyer, as the slaves crowded in, and, under the directions of the lady, lifted their dead master and bore him away to his own room. ‘It was only this very morn that I saw him and spoke with him in the forum of Caesar, as well and content as ever he was, to all seeming.’ Martialis took the key of the casket and placed it in the lawyer’s hand. ‘Open the box—it was the gift of Apicius to me, his friend.’ Plautia took up her position on one of the couches, stretching her magnificent form on the place and cushions which had before been occupied by Sejanus the Prefect. The long, loose, flowing drapery of the Roman female clung and moulded itself to the voluptuous curves of her figure. Gems and trinkets of gold glittered amid the wreathed and plaited masses of her bluish‐black hair, and numberless jewels flashed upon the fingers of her dainty white hands. Her features were slightly aquiline, but perfect and delicate in outline, and her ivory‐like skin was warm and glowing with the tints of a ripe peach. With her bold, imperious, black orbs she looked like a queen as she reclined, the most apt and brilliant centrepiece of that apartment of gorgeous splendour. The grave, elderly Festus, as he opened the casket, cast at her a glance filled with admiration. Martialis buried his face in his hands, as if fearful of allowing his hungry eyes to rest upon her, except at intervals, when the matter in hand called for some remark. When the lawyer opened the casket he found therein several papers. After glancing at each in turn, he took one up and said, ‘This is the will of M. Gabius Apicius, bequeathing his property solely to Caius Julius Martialis, knight, his friend.’