Suddenly the noise became three times louder than ever; there was a wild uproar, and piercing shrieks. The gamblers had fallen out over their petty stakes. After a short squabble one had drawn his knife on the other and stabbed him in the side. The wounded man fell, howling, on the ground and the assassin took to his heels. But the dancing girls, heedless of the catastrophe, began at once to rattle their castanets once more, and sway and whirl in their disgraceful pantomime. Quintus hurried on, filled with loathing. Never had the heartless turmoil of the great capital seemed so hideous as at this moment, in this obscure lair of humanity. Was not this squalid tragedy a reflection of all Rome--of the vast and mighty metropolis, with all its crimes, its contempt for the suffering of others, its mad lust of pleasure? It was but a short while since he had witnessed the very same scene, with more splendid surroundings and distinguished actors. For, had the events in Lycoris’s garden been at all less horrible? Had not a man lain there too, bleeding and dying, while a prostitute--aye! for the brilliant and elegant Gaul was nothing else--had bewitched a heartless crowd by her fascinations? There, no doubt, were all the splendor and luxury of wealth--here the foul brutality of misery; but, at the bottom, they were the self-same thing, at the bottom each was a sign, easy to read, of degeneracy, decrepitude and decay. And suddenly Quintus felt transported, as it were, from the life which surrounded him, into a new and unfamiliar atmosphere and light; and, strangest thing of all, that light seemed to shine forth from a pale face that he had seen but twice in his life; from the face of the humble and despised slave, who had so loftily smiled down on his persecutors and executioners. Could it be that such a thing existed as some supernatural magic? Or was it only admiration for the fortitude of a heroic nature? It was about midnight, when Quintus reached the house the flute-player had described to him. It was one of those tall, ill-constructed houses,[269] built by speculators to let in floors, and which abounded in the poorer parts of the city to the great risk of the public. Fairly substantial as to the ground floor, story towered over story till the topmost floor consisted of a single room, hardly better than a booth built of boards at a fair. The walls were cracked and sprung in many places, and here and there, where the wretched structure threatened to fall, the inhabitants had tried to prop them with beams, thus adding to their unsafe appearance. The musician met the young man at the entrance; ninety steps--which, but for Euterpe’s little lamp, he could never have mounted without mishap--led him to her habitation. “Stop here!” said Euterpe, as Quintus was about to go up to the topmost floor. “Thrax Barbatus does not live quite under the tiles;”[270] and as she spoke she knocked at a door. Thrax Barbatus opened it, looking calm, almost cheerful.