‘Rumour tells many idle and foolish things, but, as I have posted fifty leagues without stopping, save to change horses, since my last brief resting‐place, I may claim to feel somewhat weary. I am thirsty too—with your leave, I will drink a cup of wine with infinite relish.’ He turned toward the sideboard where the wine‐flagons stood; but, ere he could take a second step, she glided past him, and selecting one of the vessels, raised it with her own hands. Caius looked on and gnawed his lip. ‘I will be my own cupbearer,’ cried the Centurion; ‘you do me too much honour, lady.’ As he relieved her of the pitcher, he would have been scarcely human not to have dwelt with admiration on her brilliant beauty, which was unusually flushed and animated. She parted with the jar, and, at the same time, flashed a glowing glance upon him with her lustrous eyes. He turned round from those dangerous orbs to fill with the wine the nearest cup which stood on the table. The eyes of his brother Caius suddenly gleamed with a hard, steel‐like glint, and his face turned, simultaneously, deathly white. Lucius half turned as he raised to drink from the cup he had filled. The bumper had barely reached his lips when a scream burst from the throat of Plautia. With the cry she sprang forward and dashed the vessel from his hand on to the polished floor. The wine splashed them both and the goblet fell with such violence as to be dented. It was that one which had already played such a fatal part that night. Transfixed with astonishment the Centurion gazed upon the beautiful girl, whose face crimsoned and paled, and whose bosom heaved and fell tumultuously. ‘It was the cup—the poisoned cup!’ ejaculated she. ‘The poisoned cup!’ cried he, looking with increased surprise from one to the other. A terrible revulsion of feeling swept through, and shook, the frame of the elder Martialis. At the look of his brother he gave a hysterical gasp and dropped his head into his hands. Plautia pointed to the fallen goblet with an impressive gesture, and said, ‘It has already taken the life of one man this night. Had you drunk therefrom you would have shared his fate. That cup yet reeks of the fatal drug. Though I saw you not fill it, fortune be praised that my poor eyes perceived it ere your lips touched its horrid brim.’ ‘How, the death of a man?’ repeated the bewildered Centurion. ‘Even so! From that very cup at the close of this night’s feast,’ said she, waving her hand over the glittering disorder of the table, ‘Apicius, of his own will, drank a poisoned draught.’ The young soldier was horror‐struck. He looked around and shuddered. ‘Apicius—poisoned himself!’ he muttered. ‘This is a dreadful tale—and for what reason, in the name of the gods?’ ‘Your brother can tell you better than I—he was his bosom friend, and, moreover, was present,’ answered Plautia, turning away, as if to hide a sudden burst of feeling.