gate was open, and Tarpeia was standing there. Tatius
could see her greedy eyes in the starlight; but instead of his bracelet,
he took his shield from his left arm and struck her down with it for a
betrayer, and all the Sabine men threw their shields upon her as they
passed. So she died, but her name remains to the rock, to this day.

It was long before the temple planned by the first Tarquin was solemnly
dedicated by the first consuls of the Republic, and the earthen image of
Jupiter, splendidly dressed and painted red, was set up between Juno and
Minerva. Many hundred years later, in the terrible times of Marius and
Sylla, the ancient sanctuary took fire and was burned, and Sylla rebuilt
it. That temple was destroyed also, and another, built by Vespasian,
was burned too, and from the last building Genseric stole the gilt
bronze tiles in the year 455, when Christianity was the fact and Jupiter
the myth, one and twenty years before the final end of Rome's empire;
and the last of what remained was perhaps burned by Robert Guiscard
after serving as a fortress for the enemies of Gregory the Seventh.

[Illustration: CHURCH OF ARACOELI]

But we know, at last, that the fortress of the old city stood where the
Church of Aracoeli stands, and that the temple was on the other side,
over against the Palatine, and standing back a little from the Tarpeian
rock, so that the open square of today is just between the places of the
two. And when one goes up the steps on the right, behind the right-hand
building, one comes to a quiet lane, where German students of archaeology
live in a little colony by themselves and have their Institute at the
end of it, and a hospital of their own; and there, in a wall, is a small
green door leading into a quiet garden, with a pretty view. Along the
outer edge runs a low stone wall, and there are seats where one may rest
and dream under the trees, a place where one might fancy lovers meeting
in the moonlight, or old men sunning themselves of an autumn afternoon,
or children playing among the flowers on a spring morning.

But it is a place of fear and dread, ever since Tarpeia died there for
her betrayal, and one may dream other dreams there than those of peace
and love. The vision of a pale, strong man rises at the edge, bound and
helpless, lifted from the ground by savage hands and hurled from the
brink to the death below,--Manlius, who saved the Capitol and loved the
people, and was murdered by the