“I am but a weak creature,” said Domitia to herself, “but I am under a spell. The idea came suddenly into my mind like an inspiration from heaven, and I was goaded by it into action. No, no, I cannot bear it; Quintus Claudius a victim to some ravening brute! That noble form, mangled and torn! Sooner would I strangle him with my own hands.” Stephanus went to his own rooms, and there he demeaned himself like a madman. What curse was this, that had fallen upon him, in this absurd demand from three quarters at once? Had he triumphed so signally over Quintus Claudius, only to lose his vantage-ground; had he so painfully raised an edifice only to strike it into ruins with his own hand? Besides, how was he to do the odious task in so short a time? It was enough to drive him mad. For the first time in many years the most unheard-of thing occurred: Stephanus, the courtly man of the world, entirely forgot his company. He had left them at table and did not even return to apologize. He paced his study incessantly like a tiger in his cage, and when at last Lycoris came in search of him, his face was furious, his eyes bloodshot, his lips livid. “What has happened?” asked Lycoris horrified. “Has the boy made fools of you all?” shrieked the steward, hoarse with rage. “Away with you--go! You see I am incapable of attending to you!” “Oh! I am going. But do not forget--every minute is precious.” FOOTNOTES: [154] HER FINE SCENTED HAIR. The hair was anointed with costly essences, especially with an oil, made from the blossoms of the Indian spikenard (_Nardus indica._) CHAPTER XIX. On the following morning, at the earliest gloaming, Quintus Claudius was conducted from the dungeons of the Tullianum to the underground cells of the Amphitheatre;[155] and with him were Cornelia and some of the other Nazarenes. About fifty were reserved for the last days of the festival. The procession of the condemned moved silently along the Via Sacra; as they passed through the arch of Titus and the yellow grey of the eastern sky fell upon their faces, they looked like a file of corpses. Cornelia was as pale as death, and her eyes looked larger than ever. Only Quintus seemed to have lost little of his handsome and elastic youthfulness during these months of imprisonment. The prisoners were all, without exception, calm and composed. Even those few who, when they first set out, had wept and lamented, soon recovered their firmness when they saw that of their fellow-sufferers.