efore he could raise his sword; if he struck, Demetrius had felled
the man first; but he never let go of the white dress, nor quitted the
side of the lady. And presently, he did not know after how long--for
hours make minutes, and minutes hours, in such a melee--there was a
moment's silence, and he saw Publius Gabinius sinking down upon the
pavement, the blood streaming over his cloak; and the brigands, such
as were left of them, scurrying out of the atrium cowed and
panic-struck at the fall of their leader. Then, as he threw his arms
about Fabia, and tried to raise her to her feet, he saw the giant
Dumnorix, with his flail-like sword, rushing back to the rescue.

Four brigands lay dead in the atrium and none of the others dared look
the redoubtable Greek swordsman in the eyes; but Dumnorix came on--the
incarnation of brute fury. Then again Demetrius fought,--fought as the
angler fights the fish that he doubts not to land, yet only after due
play; and the Gaul, like some awkward Polyphemus, rushed upon him,
flinging at him barbarous curses in his own tongue, and snorting and
raging like a bull. Thrice the Greek sprang back before the monster;
thrice the giant swung his mighty sword to cleave his foeman down, and
cut the empty air; but at the fourth onset the Hellene smote the
ex-lanista once across the neck, and the great eyes rolled, and the
panting stopped, and the mighty Gaul lay silent in a spreading pool of
blood.

Already there were shouts and cries in the Forum. Torches were dancing
hither and thither. The slave-maids of the Vestals ran down the Via
Sacra shrieking and calling for aid. Out from the dark tenements
rushed the people. The thieves ran from their lairs; the late drinkers
sprang from their wine. And when the wretched remnants of Dumnorix's
band of ex-gladiators and brigands strove to flee from the holy house
they had polluted, a hundred hands were put forth against each one,
and they were torn to pieces by the frenzied mob. Into the Atrium
Vestae swarmed the people, howling, shouting, praising the goddess,
fighting one another--every man imagining his neighbour a cutthroat
and abductor.

Agias stood bearing up Fabia in his arms; she was pale as the driven
snow. Her lips moved, but no sound passed from them. Fonteia, the old
Maxima, with her white hair tumbling over her shoulders, was still
huddled in one corner, groaning and moaning in a paroxysm of
unreasoning terror, without dignity or self-contro