"Save thee?" she repeated mechanically, "how can I?"
"Hide me somewhere—where they cannot find me"—he murmured, half raising himself from the ground. "Thou wouldst not give up thy Cæsar to the fury of the populace ... thou wouldst not soil thy hands with the blood of thy kinsman..."
Now he was embracing her knees and his hideous, distorted face was looking up appealingly at her.
"Thou wouldst not soil thy hands with the blood of thy kinsman...."
Even as these words escaped his flaccid lips a roll of thunder louder than any previous one came echoing from behind the Aventine Hill. Dea Flavia shuddered. Was it Jove's warning, or already Jove's curse, the curse of the gods on her for the treachery of her thoughts?
"Thou wouldst not soil thy hands with the blood of thy kinsman...." he repeated pitiably.
"No! no!" she said hurriedly. "Not that.... I'll help thee!... What can I do?"
"Let me hide in thy house...."
"Where?"
He pointed to the studio.