"Come!"
"Give me my toga, Phormio."
And robing himself, with an air as quiet and an expression as unconcerned as if he had been setting forth to a banquet, the proud Epicurean gazed with a calmer eye upon the Consul, than that good man could fix upon his victim.
"This signet to Sempronia—that sword to—no! no!—this purse to thyself, Phormio! Consul, precede. I follow."
And the step of the convicted Traitor, as he descended from the portico of that mansion, for the last time, was firmer, statelier, prouder, than that of his conductor.
The streets were thronged—the windows crowded—the housetops heaped—with glaring mute spectators.
Some twenty knights, no more, unarmed, with the exception of their swords, composed the Consul's escort. Lentulus knew them, man by man, had drunk with them, played with them, lent money to them, borrowed of them.
He looked upon them.
They were the handful leading him to death! What made them break the ties which bound them to their brother noble? What made them forget mutual pleasures enjoyed, mutual perils incurred, mutual benefits accepted?
They were the nobles, true to their order.