“Yes,” she said with quivering lips. “I did what every woman, who deserves to be a Roman, would have done in my place. My honor is a thousand times more precious than that wretch’s life!”
Phaeton had flown into the corridor to fetch the guard. That instant of respite gave Cornelia time to lift the poisoned goblet to her lips. But before she had tasted it, Parthenius sprang upon her, and, with an adroit twist, spilt the contents of the cup.
“Serpent!” snarled Caesar, “you will not get off so cheaply, do not fancy it.”
“Oh! she will soon find out, that Caesar’s wrath postpones death till life has paid its utmost penalty!” said Parthenius. “From Caesar’s arms to the rack and scaffold—that is your fate, audacious murderess.”
“Here come the praetorians! Away with her! Throw her into chains. The governor of the prisons shall answer for it with his head, if she lays hand upon herself.”
Cornelia was more dead than alive. The soldiers bound her hands behind her back, and carried her half-fainting, out of the room.
“You did well, Phaeton,” said the Emperor, who was completely sobered by the shock. “Here, take this cup, which was so near being my death—I will give it to you in perpetual memory of the event. Henceforth you shall never quit my side, for eyes like yours do good service in these treasonable times.”
The lad humbly kissed his hand.
“You put me to shame, my lord,” he said steadfastly. “I only did my duty, and deserve no praises.”
“Only your duty!” echoed Domitian. “Then you are superior to all the millions, who own my sway. The world is rotten, rotten at the core—it must crumble into dust.—Come now, you two who are faithful. Take me away from this scene of murder.—Abandoned, mad wretch!”