the Via Portuensis toward the sea. Beyond the
Septimian Gate they rode between the river and the splendid gardens of
Domitius; the mighty cypresses were red from the conflagration, as
if from evening sunshine. The road became freer; at times they had to
struggle merely with the current of incoming rustics. Vinicius urged his
mule forward as much as possible; but Chilo, riding closely in the rear,
talked to himself almost the whole way.

"Well, we have left the fire behind, and now it is heating our
shoulders. Never yet has there been so much light on this road in the
night-time. O Zeus! if thou wilt not send torrents of rain on that fire,
thou hast no love for Rome, surely. The power of man will not quench
those flames. Such a city,--a city which Greece and the whole world was
serving! And now the first Greek who comes along may roast beans in its
ashes. Who could have looked for this? And now there will be no longer a
Rome, nor Roman rulers. Whoso wants to walk on the ashes, when they
grow cold, and whistle over them, may whistle without danger. O gods!
to whistle over such a world-ruling city! What Greek, or even barbarian,
could have hoped for this? And still one may whistle; for a heap of
ashes, whether left after a shepherd's fire or a burnt city, is mere
ashes, which the wind will blow away sooner or later."

Thus talking, he turned from moment to moment toward the conflagration,
and looked at the waves of flame with a face filled at once with delight
and malice.

"It will perish! It will perish!" continued he, "and will never be on
earth again. Whither will the world send its wheat now, its olives,
and its money? Who will squeeze gold and tears from it? Marble does not
burn, but it crumbles in fire. The Capitol will turn into dust, and the
Palatine into dust. O Zeus! Rome was like a shepherd, and other nations
like sheep. When the shepherd was hungry, he slaughtered a sheep, ate
the flesh, and to thee, O father of the gods, he made an offering of
the skin. Who, O Cloud-compeller, will do the slaughtering now, and into
whose hand wilt thou put the shepherd's whip? For Rome is burning, O
father, as truly as if thou hadst fired it with thy thunderbolt."

"Hurry!" urged Vinicius; "what art thou doing there?"

"I am weeping over Rome, lord,--Jove's city!"

For a time they rode on in silence, listening to the roar of the
burning, and the sound of birds' wings. Doves, a multitude of which had
their nests about vil