“Why, certainly. But I can manage him.”
Dempsi bit his lower lip, viewing his friend thoughtfully.
“Yes, yes, I shall know the moment the firing starts—at the first bang I will be by your side.”
Julius turned white. In moments of great excitement all great Romans go white. Cæsar Borgia had that failing. And for the matter of that, so had Nero, the celebrated fire-bug.
“Firing?” he asked faintly.
Dempsi nodded.
“He is armed—certain to be. But remember this—and let it be in your mind all the time; the thought may comfort you—when you fall I shall be ready to take your place.”
Julius stretched his neck forward.
“When—when I fall?” he said unsteadily. “I’m not likely to fall if I keep to the carpets—it’s the par-kay that does me in.”
“You will look up and see me”—Dempsi obviously relished the picture he drew—“perhaps the last thing you will ever see on earth—standing over your prostrate body, pierced, my poor Superbus, by a dozen bullets. I shall be there, face to face with your murderer!”