For as they came within about a bow-shot of the booth of Volero, the sound of a slight scuffle was heard from within, and the light of the lamp became very dim and wavering, as if it had been overset; and in a moment went out altogether. But its last glimmering ray shewed a tall sinewy figure making out of the door and bounding at a great pace up the street toward the Carmental gate. Arvina caught but a momentary glance of the figure; yet was that glance enough. He recognized the spare but muscular form, all brawn and bone and sinew; he recognized the long and pardlike bounds!—It was his tyrant, and, as he thought, his Fate! The lictors rushed away upon his track, but there seemed little chance that, encumbered with their heavy fasces, they would overtake so swift a runner, as, by the momentary sight they had of him, the fugitive appeared to be. Arvina and the Consul speedily reached the booth. "Volero! Volero!" But there came forth no answer. "Volero! what ho! Volero!" They listened eagerly, painfully, with ears sharpened by excitement. There came a sound—a plash, as of a heavy drop of water falling on the stone floor; another, and another—the trickling of a continuous stream. All was dark as a moonless midnight. Yet Cicero took one step forward, and laid his hand upon the counter. It splashed into a pool of some warm liquid. "Now may the Gods avert!" he cried, "It is blood! there has been murder here! Run, my Arvina, run to Furbo’s cookshop, across the way there, opposite; they sit up there all night—cry murder, ho! help! murder!" A minute had scarcely passed before the heavy knocking of the young man had aroused the house—the neighborhood. And at the cry of murder, many men, some who had not retired for the night, and some half dressed as they had sprung up from their couches, came rushing with their weapons, snatched at random, and with torches in their hands. It was but too true! the laborious artizan was dead; murdered, that instant, at his own counter, at his very work. He had not moved or risen from his seat, but had fallen forward with his head upon the board; and from beneath the head was oozing in a continuous stream the dark red blood, which had overflowed the counter, and trickled down, and made the paved floor one great pool! "Ye Gods! what blood! what blood!" exclaimed the first who came in. "Poor Volero! alas!" cried Furbo, "it is not an hour since he supped on a pound of sausages at my table, and now, all is over!" They raised his head. His eyes were wide open; and the whole face bore an expression neither of agony or terror, so much as of wild surprise. The throat was cut from ear to ear, dividing the windpipe, the carotid arteries and jugular veins on both sides; and so strong had been the hand of the assassin, and so keen the weapon, that the neck was severed quite to the back bone.