The lictors at the bidding of the Pontifex half turned, but being few in number were daunted by the strenuous cries of the excited crowd. The sculptor seized the moment of their irresolution and raised his voice again: "Romans! spare her." He pointed to the litter. "You who have sisters, daughters, restrain your rulers from an act that would disgrace a barbarous nation." Murmurs and conflicting cries were raised. The priests sent messengers to the soldiers at the rear of the procession. But the crowd, closer and closer packed, rendered it difficult for the messengers to pass. Above the tumult, the Pontifex cried in shrill excited tones: "The gods demand her death!" Thus incited, many in the crowd shouted in assent, while others cried again: "Hear Lucius Flaccus, hear him!" Once more the sculptor raised his voice: "The gods are names for priests to conjure with...." For a moment indescribable tumult prevailed. The centurion sought in vain to force a way through the dense, now struggling, mass of people. Again the sculptor made a passionate appeal: "I implore the aid of the Roman people. I call upon my fellow citizens to save a woman. To what purpose do we expose our lives in war? Why do we defend our wives and sisters from a foreign enemy if Rome has tyrants who incite the people to violent and vindictive acts? Soldiers in arms, do not endure these things! Free citizens, exalt yourselves by being merciful." The frantic appeal now met with no response. Lucius Flaccus looked wildly round, despair and desperation in his face. He raised the javelin, and for the last time his voice was heard: "Then thus, and thus only, can I save her from a crueller fate!" In an instant he sprang upon the lictors who confronted him, and, striking left and right, actually reached the curtains of the litter. A shudder of horror ran through all the crowd. The women shrieked. The people swayed and struggled, and the next moment it was seen that the sculptor had been beaten back, though not yet secured. He sprang upon a rock beside the road and raised the javelin high in air. "Then, Romans, if infernal gods there be, let them accept another sacrifice!" Down flashed the steel, the sharp point plunged into his heart; and, throwing out his hands, he swayed into the lictors' arms. A dreadful silence fell upon the people. Then from within the thickly-curtained litter came a despairing and half-stifled shriek. * * * * * With that wild, agonizing cry Zenobia awoke. The cry from the litter was her cry. It was her own voice that died away, and what was this mysterious sound--rising from the valley with the mists that melted at the break of day? The sound was the same that the sculptor and the priestess had heard nearly two thousand years ago; the voice of many waters as they swept across the weir, insistent, unceasing--the monotone of doom. CHAPTER XI. THE NEW AMAZONS.