“I am a freeborn Roman; nay, more--I am of equestrian rank.” “A knight--eh? Well, we’ll acknowledge thy dignity by giving thee a higher cross and painting it purple. Lictors, bring hither a stock.” In his mad desire to torment to the uttermost the soul of Berenice, Florus did not hesitate to defy Roman law by an outrage so great that Cicero confesses his inability to find a name for it. “It is an offense to bind a Roman citizen; a crime to scourge him; almost a parricide to kill him; what, then, shall I say of _crucifying_ him?” Such an outrage on the part of a Roman governor might be deemed incredible were it not attested by a contemporary historian. “Florus,” says Josephus, “dared to do what no governor before his time had ever done--to have men of the equestrian order scourged and nailed to the cross in front of his tribunal, who, although they were Jews by birth, were yet of Roman dignity notwithstanding.” Desirous of adding not so much to the agony of Marcus as to that of Berenice, Florus, with a cruel smile, issued a fresh order. “Hold! before crucifying the knave we’ll scourge him.” A strange thing is the heart of a woman! Berenice, who had been willing to subject a young girl to scourging, now shuddered when a similar torture was proposed for a young man. As for the victim himself, vainly did he urge his legal right to be transferred from the tribunal of Florus to that of Nero. “_Appello Cæsarem_--I appeal unto Cæsar,” he cried. “Cæsar’s a long way off,” laughed Florus. “In Greece, playing the fool. You’ll have to shout a good deal louder, if he’s to hear you.” Deaf to his protests, the lictors stripped the youth of his garments and tied his wrists to a column. He tried to be brave, but where is the man that _could_ be brave when subjected to the strokes of the “_horrible flagellum_”? A thrilling scream burst from Marcus’ lips as the leathern thongs, weighted with triangular pieces of lead, descended upon his naked, quivering flesh. “O Apollo! How sweet a voice!” cried Florus mockingly. “By the gods, Nero must look to his laurels, for he hath a rival. Give him a second stroke. Ah! a higher note this time. Swing the flagellum again. We’ll run him through the whole octave.” The rest of the captives, apprehensive of the same fate, looked on with blanched cheeks and terror-stricken eyes. Berenice’s distress of mind made her look like some wild thing. Her manifest agony was a luxury to the soul of Florus. “There are twenty of these youths,” he whispered, “and they shall all suffer the same fate, scourging and crucifixion. But you can save them, if you will.” “How?” gasped Berenice. Florus’ whispered reply was of a character so infamous that the indignant princess raised her hand and struck her open palm against his cheek; struck, too, with all her force. Smarting with the pain, Florus started back with a very ugly look upon his face. “Guards, remove this woman from the bema. What hath she to do with these matters?”