‘March!’ commanded the Centurion, and the band proceeded. He himself walked on foot at its head, in order to lend the old Senator the support of his arm. The slaves Pannicus and Cyrrha, with no worse effects of their adventures than a confused singing in their heads, brought up the rear. In this wise they continued, until they had crossed the mount and descended to the level ground near the Trigeminan Gate. Here Fabricius took leave of his preserver, with a few warm heartfelt words of thanks, and Martialis detached two of his men to escort him home. Continuing on his way the Centurion led his troop in double file. The clang of the horses’ hoofs, with the jingle of accoutrements, awoke the echoes of the silent, empty streets. Ascending the Palatine they halted before the Imperial palace, and were received by an official and a few slaves. The prisoner was desired to dismount, and he was led into the palace. The lights of the interior showed him to be a young man of not more than one or two‐and‐ twenty, and he maintained the sullen expression of one who has suddenly been made the victim of deceit. ‘Is this my journey’s end?’ he asked of Martialis. ‘Here I must quit you, noble Drusus; I have no further instructions than to leave you in charge of the keeper of the palace.’ ‘Take me to my room then,’ said the prince, haughtily, to the keeper, ‘where I may eat, and drink, and sleep, and forget what I am.’ The keeper obeyed and led the way through the halls of Caesar, until they arrived at a narrow passage, which terminated in a descending flight of stone steps. ‘Whither are you taking me?’ demanded the prisoner sternly, as he came to a sudden halt. ‘To the vaults of the palace,’ answered the official laconically. ‘Know you who I am?’ ‘Perfectly well. But I am ordered to place you in the vaults, and I have no alternative but to obey.’ The young prince looked fiercely around, but seeing how useless any resistance would be, he dropped his chin on his breast with a silent stoical resignation which touched Martialis to the heart. Torches were lit and the party descended the steps, and went along an underground passage. The keeper of the palace halted before a narrow, heavily‐barred door, and unlocked it. It needed a strong pressure to cause it to move on its hinges, and, as it did so, a heavy, damp, noisome atmosphere puffed forth, which caused the torches to flicker and splutter. They went in. The interior was hewn out of the rock; spacious enough, but humid, chill, and horrible—a perfect tomb. The trickling moisture, which bedewed the walls, glistened icily through the gloom in the light of the torches, and the floor was damp and sticky, and traced with the slimy tracks of creeping things. There was a pallet and a stool, and the slaves placed some eatables thereon. Martialis felt sick at heart and shuddered. ‘You are sure you are right in bringing him to this fearful place—a place unfit for a beast to rest in?’ he whispered to the gaoler.