how her plots were like to fall and crush her; but, at
this moment, the voice of Hannibal-the-Fighter rose from the other
table. Flushed with wine, he was boasting of his slain. "Four at
Trebia," he cried out, "seven at Trasimenus, eighteen at Cannae--but
all men. It is better to slay the wolves' whelps, if only to teach
women that it is no longer wise to bring forth Romans. I--I who speak
have already killed eleven boys--ah! but you must wait till we enter
Rome. Then will be the day when they shall build new cities in Hades!"

The Carthaginians heard him with indifference; the Capuans, all save
Perolla, applauded nervously; and Marcia grew sick at heart and mad
with a rage that could almost have strangled the giant as he reclined.

"And now," began Ninius, mildly, when there was a moment's silence,
"that we may the better enjoy what is to come, there are baths and
attendants; and the red feather will make way for new feastings at the
end of two hours."

Slaves had run in to assist the diners from their couches; the Capuans,
with dreams of relief, refreshment, and re-repletion; the
Carthaginians, bored, but striving to be polite and to follow the
customs of their entertainers. Even Hannibal, while his smile was half
a frown, permitted himself to be led away.

Filled with disgust and despair, Marcia felt herself all unfit to begin
a new revel--one that was to be made possible by loathsome practices,
as yet unknown at Rome, and which bade fair to end in aimless and
hideous debauchery. The women were but warming to their part, when the
summons of Stenius Ninius had proclaimed a truce with Bacchus and
Venus--a truce with promise of more deadly battle to be joined. She
had seen glances hot with wine and lust, claspings of hands, loosened
cyclas, and more lascivious reclinings. The gloomy Perolla had yielded
a little to the soft influences, and even Hannibal seemed to force
himself to toying, if only in the name of courtesy; while, through it
all, and more and more as the light of day advanced, Marcia felt the
eyes of Iddilcar, priest of Melkarth, burning into her soul. He at
least gave no heed to nearer blandishments, and terror and loathing
filled her in equal measure.

A faintness--a sudden weakness born of her recent journey--served for
excuse, which Calavius seemed not unwilling to voice, and, surrounded
by a guard of slaves, her litter bore her back to his house, through
streets littered with drunken men