‘It is the best of all the vaults,’ was the brief reply. The unhappy prince looked round, in a stupefied way, and shivered. The change was frightful, from the sunny skies and balmy air of the lovely sea‐girt Capreae. Martialis stepped up to him. ‘I must leave you, Drusus,’ he said; ‘I am sorely grieved to quit you in such a lodging—it must be by error, and if so, I will not fail to do my best to have it rectified at once.’ ‘Thanks, friend,’ said the unfortunate, looking with fixed eyes; ‘bid them send their murderers speedily!’ Without another word he went to the pallet and sat down, and buried his face in his hands in mute despair. One of the torches was fixed into an iron socket on the wall, and the order was given to withdraw. Full of distress, Martialis took a second light from the hand of its bearer, and extinguishing it, he laid it on the little stool, so that it might succeed the other when needed. Then taking his large military cloak from his shoulders, he gently dropped it over the unhappy prisoner’s form and turned away. The dungeon was then vacated and locked, and the Centurion rushed, as hastily as he was able, with a heart full of painful feelings, up into the fresh pure air and sweet moonlight outside. When he reached the camp with his troop, he was summoned to the Prefect to deliver his report, which was received by the commander with every sign of satisfaction. Proceeding, on his own impulse, to describe the dreadful circumstances of the prisoner, he was coldly interrupted and dismissed. He turned to go, inwardly burning with disgust and indignation. ‘Stay, Centurion!’ cried Sejanus; ‘you have been inquired for here to‐ day—it is right I should inform you.’ ‘Indeed! In what manner, and by whom, may I ask?’ said Martialis coldly. ‘By a workman—a potter from Surrentum! Ha! You change colour!’ ‘’Tis not from shame at least,’ returned the other haughtily. ‘No, no—from conscious folly rather. You would wed a potter’s girl. You are blind to your own interests. Amuse yourself with her, if you wish, but think twice ere you bind a clog about your neck.’ ‘And even such clogs are as easily got rid off as assumed at the present time,’ retorted the Centurion cuttingly. Sejanus bit his lip, and his brows met darkly. The retort cut home, for he had put away his wife Apicata, to further more freely his guilty intrigue with Livia, the Emperor’s daughter‐in‐law. However, he replied sarcastically, ‘That is true; but not in the case of such eminently virtuous men as yourself, Martialis. But just as you think proper—it is your own matter. As long as it affects not your Centurionship I care not—not I.’ ‘Rather than suffer that to happen, Prefect, I would relinquish my duties entirely—you need have no fear,’ answered Martialis coldly, and, saluting, he left the room. CHAPTER IX.