"As thou dost command, gracious lady."
"Then, 'tis silence that I do enjoin on thee, Dion," she said earnestly, "silence as to the praefect's presence in my house, until I bid thee speak: on pain of death, Dion, for thou art still my slave."
"I understand, gracious lady."
"Then wait for me now and on peril of thy life allow no one to enter."
But scarce had these words crossed her lips than there rose from the atrium behind her a series of weird sounds, cries, and imprecations, calls for the Augusta and curses on her slaves, as from one who is bereft of reason and screams in his madness.
"The Cæsar!" she murmured, as white to the lips now, she stood rigid by the door whilst her hand fell from the latch.
"Augusta! Augusta!" came the hoarse cries from the atrium, and the hideous, familiar sound of leather thongs whistling through the air reached her straining senses.
She put a finger to her lips, with a quick peremptory gesture to Dion, then she recrossed the studio with a firm step and the curtains of the inner door fell back behind her with a swish.
The next moment she was standing in the atrium facing Caligula, the Cæsar.