Then, unexpectedly to herself, Brinnaria’s wrath boiled over. “Then,” she fairly yelled at him, “I’m going to begin beating you. Shut your eyes. I’m going to pull down the curtain!” Numisia made a horrified grab at Brinnaria and missed her. Brinnaria gave her a push; Numisia slipped, fell her length on the floor, struck her head and either fainted or was stunned. Bambilio, his eyes tight shut, the instant after Numisia’s head cracked the floor, heard snap the string supporting the curtain. He shut his eyes tighter. He felt the scourge wrenched from his limp fingers, felt the back of his neck grasped by a muscular young hand, felt the impact of the twenty-four sheep-hoofs on his back. Through his clothing they stung and smarted. There came another blow and another. Bambilio tried to get away, but he dreaded unseemly contact with a naked Vestal and did not succeed in his efforts. The blows fell thick and fast. He was an old man exhausted by a long day of excitement and by his exertions while scourging Brinnaria. His knees knocked together, he gasped, he snorted: the pain of the blows made him feel faint; he collapsed on the floor. Then Brinnaria did beat him, till the blood ran from his back almost as from hers, beat him till the old man fainted dead away. When her arm was tired she gave him a kick, threw the scourge on him and groped for Numisia. Numisia had sat up. “My child,” she said, “why did you do it?” “I don’t know,” snarled Brinnaria. “I was furious. I did it before I thought. Are you hurt?” “No,” said Numisia. “Don’t tell anyone you pushed me. I’ll never tell. I don’t blame you, dear.” She fainted again. Causidiena, waiting under the colonnade of the courtyard, was appalled to descry in the gloom a totally naked Brinnaria, a mass of clothing hanging over her arm. “My child,” she protested, “why did you not put on your clothes?” “I don’t care who sees me!” Brinnaria retorted. “I’m boiling hot; I’m all over sweat and blood and my back’s cut to ribbons.” “What are you going to do?” Causidiena queried. “I’m going to bed,” Brinnaria replied. “Please send Utta to me and tell her to bring the turpentine jug and the salt box.” “My dear,” Causidiena objected, “you’ll never endure the pain!” “Yes, I shall,” Brinnaria maintained. “I’ll set my teeth and stand the smart. I don’t mean to have a festered back. I’ll have Utta rub me with salt and turpentine from neck to hips; I’ll be asleep before she’s done rubbing.” “I’ll come and see she does it properly,” Causidiena said. “Better not,” said Brinnaria. “Numisia and Bambilio need you worse than I do.” “Why?” queried Causidiena. “After Bambilio was done beating me,” Brinnaria explained calmly, “I beat him. Numisia tried to stop me and somehow fell on the floor and was stunned. She came to after I was done with Bambilio, but she fainted again. I beat him till he is just a lump of raw meat, eleven-twelfths dead, wallowing in his blood like a sausage in a plate of gravy.”