Lentulus seized one quickly, and swallowed it at a mouthful—there is a hot thirst in that last excitement—but as the flavor reached his palate, when the roughness of the harsh draught had passed away, he flung the cup down scornfully and said,
"Finish it! Take this filthy taste from my lips! Let me rest!"
And with the words, he advanced to the Moors who stood beside the well-like aperture, and without a word suffered them to place the rope under his arms, and lower him into the pit.
Just as his head, however, was disappearing, he cast his eyes upward, and met the earnest gaze of the Consul.
"The voice of the people! the man of the people!" he cried sarcastically. "Fool! fool! they shall avenge me! Think upon me near Formiæ!"
Was that spite, or a prophecy?
The eyes of the dying sometimes look far into futurity.
The haughty traitor was beyond the sight, before his words had ceased to ring in the ears of the spectators.
There was a small low sound heard from below—not a groan, not a struggle—but a rustle, a sob, a flutter—silence.
'So did[12] that Patrician, of the most noble house of the Cornelii, who once held consular dominion in Rome, meet his end, merited by his course of life, and his overt actions.'