you.
Yes, you are right. I am going away to-morrow. I am--a courtesan.
What then?"

"By the gods! no!" he cried, and she heard him spring to his feet.
Then, lowering his voice, "If I thought _that_, I would kill you."

"You would only forestall my own blow," she said quietly, and there was
new silence.

At last he spoke again.

"Tell me all of this matter. You are safe. I am a Roman."

"A Roman--and a slave?"

"And a slave. Tell me the truth quickly."

The voice sounded weak and hollow now, but still strangely familiar.
She began her story, speaking in a low monotone.

"I am Marcia, daughter of Titus Manlius Torquatus. I loved, and yet I
drove my lover from me, and he was killed on the black day of Cannae.
Then the Senate feared lest the enemy should advance to Rome--prayed
for the winter--for time. And I was beautiful, and I had no love, save
for the king, Orcus. So the thought came to me that by my
blandishments I might win power with these people, and, by power,
delay, and, by delay, safety for Rome--and revenge for my lord, Lucius.
Therefore I journeyed to Capua. You see that I have played my
part--that I have won? Tomorrow I go to pay the price. What matters
it? Then I can die."

He had listened in silence; only she heard his breath coming hard, and,
a moment after she had finished, he spoke:--

"No--you cannot die--not thus. _I_ have died--once, yet I live.
Listen! I, like the lover you tell of, was slain at Cannae, pierced
through by javelins, and I lay with the dead heaped above me--ah! so
many hours--days, perhaps--I do not know; until the slave-dealers,
passing among the corpses, found me breathing, and wondered at my
strength, auguring a good value. Therefore they took me, and when I
was well of my wounds they brought me here--to Capua, and sold me to
Pacuvius Calavius--to whom may the gods give the death of a traitor!
Lo! now, let it be for a warning that Orcus does indeed send back the
dead from Acheron."

He leaned forward, as he spoke the words, and there came to Marcia a
sudden memory of two occasions when she had used the ancient
saying--the colloquial "never" of Rome. Once it had bound her to
Iddilcar, and once, far back, in happier times, it had parted her
forever from Sergius. Tears rolled down her cheeks. A dim light
seemed to be creeping into the room--very dim, but as her eyes grew dry
again, she could begin to trace the outlines of her companion sitting
on a low