But elsewhere the flame of freedom still burns in many a British breast. While Suetonius is slaughtering the Druids, Boadicea, Queen of the Iceni, is rousing her followers to fury by the tale of her terrible wrongs. Her dying husband, to appease his conquerors, bequeathed half his wealth to them, in the hope that his wife and daughters might enjoy the rest in peace. He reckoned without his hosts. They seize the whole of the treasure; they scourge Boadicea with rods; they shamefully wrong her children, and goad her to madness. See her now in her war-chariot, her long yellow hair unbound, and falling below the golden girdle that encircles her waist, her eyes flashing vengeance as she pours forth burning words and pleads for revenge. Her men arm themselves, and almost every hut on the wide plain east of the Chilterns sends forth its warrior sworn to vengeance. They swoop upon the feebly garrisoned town of Camulodunum, and every Roman in it—man, woman, and helpless infant—is put to the sword. The Ninth Legion, coming to the rescue, is cut to pieces, and the whole East of England is in a blaze of rebellion. London falls before the conquering tribes, and seventy thousand Romans are butchered by the bloodthirsty victors. At last it seems that the yoke of Rome is broken, and Britain is once more free. The dread news at last reaches Suetonius. By forced marches he hastens to London. Too late to save the city, he turns north, and takes up a strong position, with woods and the sea behind and the open plain in front. The Britons are eager for the fight. So sure of victory are they that they have brought their women to the field as spectators, and have placed them in a row of wagons in the rear, so that their shrill cries of encouragement shall ring in their ears as they charge down on the foe. Boadicea, spear in hand, her daughters by her side, hurries from tribe to tribe in her chariot, exhorting her followers to conquer or die. “This,” she cries, “is a woman’s resolve; as for men, they may live to be slaves.” Maddened by her words, the Britons charge the foe, only to be repulsed with awful slaughter. They recoil from the brazen wall, and the legions carve their way through the disordered ranks, while the masterless steeds of the chariots, dashing hither and thither, add to the slaughter. The Romans are pitiless; they spare not even the women. The battle is over; Rome has triumphed, and Boadicea, heart-broken and hopeless, flies from the scene, and in shuddering horror at the fate which awaits her, ends her life and that of her children with poison. Cowper, in his well-known poem, represents a Druid in the hour of her death prophesying the fall of the Roman Empire and the far-off greatness of her stricken land,— “Ruffians, pitiless as proud, Heaven awards the vengeance due: Empire is on us bestowed, Shame and ruin wait for you.”