gs too mean to occupy a place, even, in
the mind of Cicero," answered Arvina.

"Nothing, young man, that pertains to our fellow men, is too mean to
occupy the mind of the noblest. Why should it, since it doth occupy the
mind of the Gods, who are all great and omnipotent?"

"You lean not then to the creed of Epicurus, which teaches----"

"Who, I?" interrupted Cicero, almost indignantly. "No! by the immortal
Gods! nor I trust, my young friend, do you. Believe me--but ha!" he added
in a quick and altered tone, "what have we here? there is some villainy in
the wind--away! away! there! lictors apprehend that fellow."

For as they came within about a bow-shot of the booth of Volero, the sound
of a slight scuffle was heard from within, and the light of the lamp
became very dim and wavering, as if it had been overset; and in a moment
went out altogether. But its last glimmering ray shewed a tall sinewy
figure making out of the door and bounding at a great pace up the street
toward the Carmental gate.

Arvina caught but a momentary glance of the figure; yet was that glance
enough. He recognized the spare but muscular form, all brawn and bone and
sinew; he recognized the long and pardlike bounds!--It was his tyrant, and,
as he thought, his Fate!

The lictors rushed away upon his track, but there seemed little chance
that, encumbered with their heavy fasces, they would overtake so swift a
runner, as, by the momentary sight they had of him, the fugitive appeared
to be.

Arvina and the Consul speedily reached the booth.

"Volero! Volero!"

But there came forth no answer.

"Volero! what ho! Volero!"

They listened eagerly, painfully, with ears sharpened by excitement. There
came a sound--a plash, as of a heavy drop of water falling on the stone
floor; another, and another--the trickling of a continuous stream.

All was dark as a moonless midnight. Yet Cicero took one step forward, and
laid his hand upon the counter. It splashed into a pool of some warm
liquid.

"Now may the Gods avert!" he cried, "It is blood! there has been murder
here! Run, my Arvina, run to Furbo's cookshop, across the way there,
opposite; they sit up there all night--cry murder, ho! help! murder!"

A minute had scarcely passed before the heavy knocking of the young man
had aroused the house--the neighborhood. And at the cry of murder, many
men, some who had not retired for the night, and some half dressed as they
had sprung up from their couches,