“Mad fool! what are you saying....”
“What I was bound to say. You thought I was afraid; I am only proud. No, and if you were Cypris[96] in person I should disdain you no less, in spite of every charm. Never will I touch the lips, that have been kissed by a buffoon—a slave."[97]
Domitia did not stir; she seemed paralyzed by the fury of this attack.—At last, however, she rose.
“You are very right, Quintus,” she said. “It was too much to expect. Go and sleep, and dream of your wedding. But the gods, you know, are envious. They often grant us joys in our dreams and deny the reality. But now, before you go, kneel to the Empress!” and as she spoke a stiletto flashed ominously in her hand. Quintus, however, had with equal swiftness drawn his dagger.
“Fair and gently!” he said drawing back. “The honor of being stabbed by the fair hand of Domitia is a temptation no doubt....” She colored and dropped the weapon.
“Leave me!” she said, going to lean against the balustrade. “I do not know what I am doing; my brain is reeling. Forgive me—forgive me!” Quintus made no reply, and casting a glance of furious hatred at him she hurried down the steps, glided through the gap in the brushwood into the deserted park, and vanished among the shrubs.
Quintus stood looking after her.
“One foe the more!” said he to himself. “Well, what does it matter? Either to be made an end of by the knife of an assassin—or to live on, my very soul sickened with it all.... Pah!”
And he made his way homewards, singing a Greek drinking-song as he went.