But a deep solemn murmur rose on all sides, deepening, swelling into a vast overwhelming conclamation—"Down with the Traitor—away with the Parricide!" But unchecked by this awful demonstration of the popular mind, he still raised his voice to its highest pitch, defying all, both gods and men, till again it was drowned by that appalling torrent of scorn and imprecation. Then, with a furious gesture, and a yelling voice that rose clear above all the din and clamor, "Since," he exclaimed, "my enemies will drive me headlong to destruction I will extinguish the conflagration which consumes me in their universal ruin!" And pursued by the yells, and groans, and curses of that great concourse, and hunted by wilder furies within his own dark soul, the baffled Traitor rushed precipitately homeward. CHAPTER VI. THE FLIGHT. Abiit, excessit, evasit, erupit. CICERO. His heart was a living hell, as he rushed homeward. Cut off on every side, detected, contemned, hated, what was left to the Traitor? To retrace his steps was impossible,—nor, if possible, would his indomitable pride have consented to surrender his ambitious schemes, his hopes of vengeance. He rushed homeward; struck down a slave, who asked him some officious question; spurned Orestilla out of his way with a bitter earnest curse; barred himself up in his inmost chamber, and remained there alone one hour. One hour; but in that hour what years, what ages of time, what an eternity of agony, was concentrated! For once in many years he sat still, motionless, silent, while thought succeeded thought, and passion passion, with indescribable rapidity and vividness. In that one hour all the deeds of his life passed before him, from his wild and reckless boyhood to his atrocious and dishonored manhood. The victims of his fiendish passions seemed to fleet, one by one, before his eyes, with deathlike visages and ghastly menace. The noble virgin, whom he had first dishonored, scarcely as yet a boy, pointed with bloody fingers to the deep self-inflicted wound, which yawned in her snowy bosom. The vestal, who had broken through all bounds of virtue, piety, and honor, sacrificed soul and body to his unpitying lust, gazed at him with that unearthly terror in her eyes, which glared from them as they looked their last at earth and heaven, when she descended, young and lovely, into a living grave. The son, whom he had poisoned, to render his house vacant for unhallowed nuptials, with his whole frame convulsed in agony, and the sardonic grin of death on his writhing lips, frowned on him. His brother, who had drawn life from the same soft bosom, but whose kindred blood had pleaded vainly against the fratricidal dagger, frowned on him. His sister’s husband, that mild and blameless knight, whose last breath was spent in words of peace and pardon to his slayer, now frowned on him.