He had been startled when half-way by seeing the flames rise, and hearing in the distance the tumult of the revolted slaves. He stood still.
A fleeing woman then hurried towards him, with covered head, he stopped her.
"It is thou, Tribune!" cried the fugitive.
"What? Thou, Zoë! The Judge's wife! What has happened?"
"The slaves! Our house is burning! Save! help!"
"My troops are standing in the Forum of Hercules. I will return myself immediately. Then will I help."
He had then hurried into the empty house of the priest, rushing through it with sword drawn, he reached the Basilica, and instead of him he sought, had struck dead his own confederate. He had hardly discovered this, when there sounded in the direction of the portal the bugles and trumpets of his horsemen, calling to the attack.
"They are in conflict with the rioters," thought the Tribune, and he was going out through the doorway. "Rascals of slaves! while the barbarians stand before the gates!"
But on the threshold he suddenly stopped: for quite a different sound struck on his terrified ear--not the raging howl of frantic slaves; no, a cry well known to him--the watch-cry, the war-cry, the cry of victory of the Germans, and--it was close at hand.
"Germans in the town? Impossible!"