A priest with the help of a torch, was melting the wax and fastening it on again, whilst the guard of the temple kept off the rabble.
The currents of human beings, driven by diverse passions, jostled, broke across each other, resolved themselves into swirls of living men and women carried off their feet.
The litter of the lady Duilia and her daughter tossed like a boat in a whirlpool, and the widow shrieked with terror.
Then two powerful arms were thrust within the curtains of the palanquin, and the slave Eboracus laid hold of Domitia, and said:—
“There is no safety here. Trust me. I will battle through with you. Come on my arm. Fear not.”
“Save me! Me, also!” screamed Duilia, “I shall be thrown out, trodden under foot! O my wig! My wig!”
But Eboracus, regardless of the widow, holding his young mistress on his left arm, with the right armed with a cudgel, which he whirled like a flail, and with which, without compunction he broke down all opposition, drove, battered his way through the throng where most dense, across the currents most violent, and did not stay till he had reached a comparatively unobstructed spot, in one of the narrow lanes between the Fish Market and the Hostilian Court.
“ARMED WITH A CUDGEL, WHICH HE WHIRLED LIKE A FLAIL.” Page 129.