Drusilla thus half feigned contagious fears, But half she felt them; for in truth she now, So long in shadow from her husband's mood, Was under power of gloomy imaginings. Yet, felt or feigned her fears, she made them spells This day to conjure with, when to her own Image the little Felix's she joined In desperate hope to spur her husband's spirit Out of the slough of his despondency And comfort him by making him comfort her. But Felix was not fiber fine enough To feel even, less to heed, appeal wrung out Though from sincerest pain for sympathy; And now his own crass egoism coarsely knew How shallow, or how hollow, or how false, This subtler egoism of his consort was. Drusilla's art defeated its own end; Felix more murkily lowered, and muttered fierce Betwixt set teeth in husky tones and low: "Aye, and why _not_ thou too along with me? Count thyself meant--thyself not less than me-- In what that memorable day was said At Cæsarea in the judgment hall-- Said, and much more conveyed without being said-- By that Jew Paul, of dark impending doom. If I am wicked, sure thou art wicked too; The gods must hate us, if they hate, alike. Let us, since hated jointly, jointly hate. Perhaps compact and cordial partnership Betwixt us in some hatred chosen well Will be almost as good as mutual love!" Drusilla to such savage cynicism Gave loth ear bitterly, as one well sure It were not wise in anything to cross Her husband's brutal whim, and he went on: "There is that milksop Sergius Paulus--_he_ Roman, forsooth! The Roman in his blood, If ever Roman ran therein true red, Has been washed white with something else infused. I much misdoubt that Paul has brought him round To be disciple of the Nazarene. A pretty pair, a Roman and a Jew-- Like us, my dear Drusilla! And the Jew, In either case, the chief one of the pair!" With such communings entertained those two, Adulterer and adulteress, the hours; The passion that they once had miscalled love, Yea, even that passion--long in either breast With the disgust of sick satiety Palled--now at length by guilt and guilty fears, Brood of ambition disappointed, slain: But in the ashes of such burned-out love Smouldered the embers of self-fuelled hate, Fell fire that thus on Sergius fixed its fangs!