The moment the girl saw it, she started back and put her hands to her bosom.
“My dear child,” said Longa Duilia, “you will thank the Lares and Penates, that our cousin has taken refuge with us. The Capitol is in flames, the Imperial guards are storming the walls, there is, I fear, no hope for our dear good friend Flavius Sabinus. Poor man, how he enjoyed himself at supper here the other day! We may hope for the best, but not expect impossibilities. Revolutions and all these sorts of things have their natural exits, the sword, the Tullianum and the Gemonian steps—horrible, but inevitable. Domitian has fled to us, disguised as a priest of Jupiter. O my dear, what a nice thing it is that there is so much religion left among the common people that they respected his cloth. Well, here he is, and we must do what we can for him.”
“Cast him out,” said Domitia hoarsely.
“What, my love?”
“Cast him out—the beast, the crowned beast, the new Nero. The fifth that was and the eighth that will be.”
Duilia raised her eyebrows.
“My dear, I don’t in the least understand enigmas. I was never clever at them, though my parts are not generally accounted bad.”
“Mother, I pray you, I beseech you as you desire my happiness, do not harbor him under your roof. Cast him forth. What ho! Slaves!”
Domitian started and caught the girl by the shoulders.
“You would betray me?”