He looked upon the thronged streets—upon the crowded windows—upon the heaped housetops, he saw myriads, myriads who had fed on his bounty, encouraged his infa[pg 153]my, hoped from his atrocity, urged him to his crime, myriads who now frowned upon him—cursed him—howled at him—or—more cowardly—were silent. Myriads, who might have saved him, and did not.
Wherefore?
They were the people, false to their leader.
He looked from the handful to the myriad—and shook himself, as a lion in his wrath; and stamped the dust from his sandals.
Cicero saw the movement, and read its meaning. He met the glance, not humiliated, but prouder for the mob's reprobation; and said, what he would not have said had the glance been conscious—
"Thou seest!—Hearest!"
"The voice of the People!" answered the traitor with a bitter sneer.
"The voice of God!" replied the Consul, looking upward.
"That voice of God shall shout for joy at thy head on the rostrum! Such is the fate of all who would serve the people!"
The eloquent tongue, stabbed with the harlot's bodkin, the head and the hand, nailed on the beaked column in after days, showed which best knew the people, their savior, or their parricide.